Out of the Past
by Oaktown fangirl
Summary: A deadly curse unites the past and present of the estate of Collinwood. Maggie Evans, the Collins family governess, is haunted by a mysterious figure from the past. Meanwhile, Barnabas Collins seeks answers to the curse in the year 1897.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This story is dedicated to the Fabulous Ms F, my Dark Shadows viewing partner. We have been slowly working our way through the DVD collections, binge watching during breaks in our respective academic schedules. The first time Ms F saw Maggie with Quentin's ghost, she wanted more. Finding a paucity of fan fic about the two, she asked me to write one. It started small and grew until it took way more time than I intended. Ms F—here it is at last. Thanks for your advice and ideas.

Also, I want to acknowledge the Dark Shadows Wiki, a wonderful resource for all things DS.

 **Prologue**

A storm breaks over the Great House at Collinwood. Dawn has vanquished the remaining clouds of a thunderous and wild night. For one young woman, morning's light belies the dark secrets embodied by the house. Maggie Evans has come to the great estate to start over. She has come to begin a career as governess to the two children of the household. And she has come knowing only the contours of the mysterious house, but not the details of the lives, loves, and tragedies of the Collins family.

Little does she know that the Collinwood estate lies at the tenuous intersection of the past and the present. Nor does she know that one member of the Collins family, himself a man out of his own time, has undertaken a perilous journey to the past. His actions ripple across time and Maggie will soon find herself caught in one of these eddies, unsure how to break free.

That man, Barnabas Collins, is seeking an answer to a mysterious curse. The curse has afflicted a young man, Chris Jennings—a resident of the Collinwood estate, and a friend and protégé of Barnabas. Each full moon brings the curse to deadly fruition, and traps the young man in the form of a deadly, mindless beast.

Barnabas feels deep empathy for the young man whose plight is much like his own—for he too was once the victim of a terrible curse—a curse that changed his very nature and caused him to do despicable things. So he has taken it upon himself to help Chris Jennings. On the night of each full moon, he has locked the young man in a secret room in the Collins family mausoleum, and allowed him to turn from man to beast, from Chris Jennings to a werewolf, in a place where he can do no harm to anyone else.

But Barnabas has done more than just shelter his friend; he has sought a cure to the curse. He knows from experience that a curse can be cured. But his efforts were in vain. The practitioners who cured Barnabas offered no solutions to the werewolf curse.

The morning following the recent full moon, when Barnabas returned to the mausoleum, he found his friend trapped in his werewolf form, unable to transform back into Chris Jennings. In desperation, Barnabas turned to an old foe—the sorceress, Angelique …

* * *

Barnabas placed the candles on the mantelpiece, stood before the fireplace in the drawing room of the Old House, and summoned her. "Hear me Angelique. Hear me and come to me." He waited and then renewed his plea, "Hear me Angelique. Come to me. Come to me, I implore you."

Angelique materialized in the drawing room. Her blond curls bounced in the firelight as she threw her head back and laughed. "So Barnabas, you've called for me at last."

His demeanor was humble. "I am calling on you for your help."

"Are you indeed?" she replied in haughty amusement. "The great Barnabas Collins needs my help?" She turned and paced away from him, "Tell me Barnabas, what do you want of me?" Turning back, she noticed that the portrait of her long-ago rival, Josette DuPres, still hung over the fireplace. A cloud of envy and contempt passed over her features.

"There's a young man afflicted by a terrible curse. I have searched in vain for a cure to his affliction …"

"And you thought, _perhaps Angelique will help me_."

"I thought no one but Angelique can help me," he responded.

"Barnabas, you flatter me." Today she appeared to him as a woman from the present in a trim green suit with matching pumps, and gold accessories. "Really, Barnabas, why do you care about these petty human concerns? Surely, you and I transcend such matters."

"You forget—I too am human now."

"I can hardly forget, Barnabas, for you could not summon me in this way if you were still cursed," she said.

"Name your price, Angelique," he looked down, disconsolate. "I am prepared to pay it."

She looked at him for a long moment, as though considering what price to ask. But what did he have to offer. Perhaps if he were immortal still, there would a price worth exacting, a price worth having. Instead she asked reasonably, "And what do you know of this curse? Who placed the curse on him and why?"

Barnabas looked confused, "I don't know."

"Perhaps he deserves it," she said. "Perhaps he seduced a young woman, allowed her to fall in love with him, and then revealed that his heart would always belong to another," she added, bitterness in her voice.

Barnabas sighed. "Angelique, this is nothing like what happened between us."

"But by your own admission Barnabas, you don't know."

"Angelique, he is trapped in his werewolf form, locked up like an animal. He has a young sister, and my cousin Carolyn is in love with him—they have no idea what's become of him." He pleaded, "Please Angelique, if you don't help me …"

"I didn't say I wouldn't help," Angelique smiled as she said this.

"Then you'll lift the curse?"

"Perhaps."

Now Barnabas allowed some frustration to infuse his entreaties. "Well, will you or won't you? Speak plainly."

"I will, but first you must find out the origin of the curse, who placed it, and why."

"How? Chris has no idea, and even if he did, he's in no condition to tell me. Where am I to look?"

"As to that, I am prepared to help you—with these." She reached in the pocket of her suit jacket and produced a small velvet drawstring bag, and handed it to him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Open it," Angelique smiled in anticipation. Barnabas opened the bag, and looked at Angelique with a question on his face. "I Ching wands," she told him. "With them, you will travel to the origin of the curse, then I will know how to lift it, and you will know whether you still want me to do so."

Barnabas held the wands in his hand, and considered whether or not to trust the sorceress. "How are they used?"

"I will guide you in their use, Barnabas, but it is your own will and concentration that will guide you to the answers you seek."

Barnabas examined the wands in silence, his eyebrows drawn together. Then he said to Angelique, "I need to talk this over with Julia."

Deep dimples underscored Angelique's knowing smile, "By all means, Barnabas. When you've made up your mind, you may summon me again." With that, she was gone.

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

Even after months of working at the great estate at Collinwood, as governess to young David Collins and the Collins' ward, Amy Jennings, Maggie felt she would never get used to the rambling mansion. It was so at odds with the cottage by the sea that she shared with her father for most of her life, prior to her employment here. Still after so many months, she found the night-noises disconcerting. She rarely achieved the kind of peaceful sleep she enjoyed at the cottage.

Maggie woke with a start. The window was closed, but a cool breeze whispered across her face. She sat up. Her hand went to her chest.

He stood there—a mere apparition—the ghost of a man from the past. His clothes, his strange sideburns, the pocket-watch, everything about him marked him as a man out of time, but his eyes—those eyes and the look in them were unbound by time.

"Who are you?" Maggie cried in a shrill voice. "What do you want?"

He said nothing, but his magnetic eyes locked on hers. He searched her face hungrily. Maggie felt the color rise in her cheeks. He … _it_ took a step closer to the bed. "Don't come any closer," Maggie implored him. She pulled the sheet up to cover her bare shoulders and décolletage. "What do you want from me?"

He said nothing, but he smiled and his eyes conveyed his desire.

"No … please …" Maggie cried out. She felt the room spin around her, as she collapsed back among the pillows.

When Maggie woke she found Carolyn sitting on her bed, holding her hand. "Maggie, are you alright? I was so worried." Carolyn's blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing her worried face.

Maggie slowly came to sitting—her hair tussled, her pink baby-doll nightgown slightly askew. "Worried?" She was confused. "Carolyn, what are you doing here?"

"You cried out in your sleep," Carolyn told her. "Your face was so pale, and your hands are so cold."

Maggie's hand went reflexively to her chest again. Her dark eyes were wide with fear. "Carolyn, I had that dream again."

"What dream, Maggie?"

"This man … he comes to me in my dreams … every night lately. He just stands there looking at me." Now her words came out in a rush, "He's wearing these old-fashioned clothes, like he's from another time. And each night he gets closer and closer, but he never speaks. He wants something from me, Carolyn."

"You mean something besides the obvious," Carolyn laughed to lighten the heavy mood.

"Carolyn!"

"Well, look at you!"

"I'm being serious."

"I know you are," Carolyn responded. "And I didn't mean to make fun of you. It's just that it doesn't sound so very bad."

"No, I guess not … it's just that it's so real. I feel his presence as though he's really here. I've never felt anything like it before."

"Would you like me to stay tonight?" Carolyn asked.

Maggie smiled for the first time since she woke. "Thanks Carolyn, but you should try to get some sleep. I'm sorry I woke you. With everything that's going here, the last thing you need to worry about is me and my silly dreams. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? I don't mind—really I don't."

"Thanks, but I'll be fine. I think I'll stay up and read for awhile—and I'll leave the light on."

Carolyn gave Maggie a brief hug, and then left the room, closing the door behind her.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

Rachel Drummond sat in the tri-part seat in the drawing room of Collinwood, holding a book, looking as if she was reading. In truth, she'd read not a single page for the last half hour. Instead, she followed the tributaries and eddies of her thoughts about the strange house she now called home, and its strange inhabitants and acquaintances.

She'd come to Collinwood hoping for nothing more than to escape her past, and the abuse she'd suffered from the Trasks, a family of righteous hypocrites who ran the boarding school where she'd grown up and later served as a teacher. She'd been bullied, coerced, threatened until she finally found the courage to break free. It was Edward Collins and his advertisement for a governess for his children that gave her a chance for freedom and happiness. It gave her the chance to educate and nurture her young charges in a safe and happy environment—in a home.

And while she still believed that Collinwood was her salvation, it was far from the safe and happy environment she envisaged when she wrote in application to Mr. Collins. It was true that the children, Jamison and Nora, were loved both by their father and by an extended family that lived in the sprawling mansion. It was equally true that the mansion held dark secrets within its walls and corridors. No one was untouched by them; no one was immune. Even Rachel herself, within a few short days of arriving there, had been ensnared by the secret in the tower room.

The drawing room door opened and Quentin Collins strode in. "Miss Drummond," he said authoritatively, "what are you doing in here?" he demanded as he closed the doors behind him.

Flustered and surprised, Rachel closed the book and hastily got to her feet. "Mr. Edward and Miss Judith are in Collinsport this evening. I took the liberty of reading here because the fire is lit, and it's warmer than my room." Patches of pink stained her cheeks, as though she were a guilty schoolgirl caught in a lie.

Quentin eyed her seriously for a moment, and then broke into a hearty laugh. "Really Rachel, you should know me better than that by now. Sit down." She returned to her seat, but left the book closed. He turned and went to liquor cabinet and drew out a decanter full of deep amber liquid, and two glasses. "I'm having a brandy. Care to join me."

"No thank you, Mr. Collins. I wouldn't presume to …"

He cut her short, "No, of course you wouldn't. Maybe you should though—just this once, see how it feels to be a little bad." Glass in hand, he sat beside her in the tri-part seat. "I suspect there's a little bad, even in you Rachel," he purred into her ear.

This time, Rachel flushed all the way to the roots of her hair. "Mr. Collins," she began.

"Quentin," he said forcefully. "I asked you to call me Quentin."

She looked down still feeling flushed and embarrassed. "You know I can't do that, and you know why." She turned and met his gaze.

He smiled what he hoped would be his most seductive smile, and returned, "I know you _won't_ , and I know why."

Just then there was an oh-so-brief knock on the door before it opened and Beth said, "Quentin? I thought I heard your voice." Then noticing Rachel in the second part of the seat, she caught herself. "I didn't think …"

"No," he said harshly, "you never do where I'm concerned. But you're here now. Why don't you get a glass of brandy and join us? What a handsome trio we'll make."

Rachel was surprised to see Beth head to the liquor cabinet and fill the second glass. Seeing this, she rose and turned to Quentin, "I'll leave you now. Goodnight Beth. Goodnight Mr. Collins."

Just as she reached the door, Quentin said, "Oh, Rachel?" She turned back to face him. "Tomorrow, I'll see what we can do about making your room more comfortable."

"Thank you Mr. Collins," she said, and left, closing the door behind her. And for the first time, he saw something in her that he'd not noticed before. She was the same shy governess she'd always been, but for the first time recognized something deeper at work there too. Perhaps Beth's bold-faced presumptions made the contrast clear. Rachel Drummond for whatever she'd been through was clear-eyed, dignified and strong. While she'd been embarrassed by his familiar addresses to her, she demonstrated more poise than one would expect from an inexperienced governess. She'd be no man's easy conquest.

As though reading his thoughts, Beth said, "You should stay away from her. She could lose her job, if she gets mixed up with you."

"Speaking from experience? Yet, here you are. Why exactly are you still here, Beth? If I were so bad, surely you'd welcome getting away from me. I'm sure my sister will give you a good reference and you can find work somewhere else."

"Oh, Quentin, why do you say those things to me?" She whined plaintively. "You know how much I care for you."

"Really? Prove it. Tell me why you're really here. Tell me the secret that Judith and Edward are keeping from me."

When Beth took a sip of brandy, Quentin thought that she was steeling herself to tell him the truth. Instead she said, "Please Quentin, you know I can't …"

He stood so quickly he startled her. He downed the rest of his drink and slammed the empty glass on top of the cabinet. In a few long strides he was at the door. He turned to where she sat, tears welling up in her eyes. "Do you know what I like about Rachel Drummond?" He didn't pause expecting an answer. "She's straightforward."

Now Beth recovered herself enough to say, "That's rich coming from you." She laughed bitterly and threw back the last of her brandy. "Do you think that someone like her could love you the way I do?" she spat out bitterly. "She wouldn't even give you the time of day if your name wasn't Collins."

"It doesn't really matter, because I'm not looking for _that_ from Rachel, but it pleases me to spend time with someone like her. It's refreshing." With that he turned and opened the doors, preparing to leave. "Oh, and Beth, I wouldn't let dear Judith return to find you sipping her brandy. No matter what secret of hers you're keeping, I don't think she'll tolerate that from the help." With that he strode out of the drawing room and up the stairs.

* * *

Later that night, Rachel was alone in her room. These were the times that were most difficult for her. At least at the Trask's boarding school, Worthington Hall, she had Tim, an old friend and fellow teacher, to confide in, or even Charity, the Trask's "pious" schoolteacher daughter to bicker with. But here at Collinwood, there was no one. She and Beth were about the same age, but Beth saw her as a rival for Quentin's attention, and more than that, Beth continued to lie to her about the strange light in the tower room. Rachel found herself drawn to her bedroom window. From it, she could barely make out a thin slice of the tower room. The times when she saw the light clearly, she was on the terrace or in the garden. Both Beth and Judith Collins emphatically told her she'd been mistaken. And she wanted to believe them, but she knew what she saw. If being right meant losing her job and going back to Worthington Hall, she'd rather go along with the lie. Right now, the thin sliver of the tower looked dark and still. Leaving her dressing gown at the foot of her bed, Rachel slid into the bedding, closed her eyes, and willed sleep to come.

She dozed in and out of a fitful sleep. Dreams of the tower room lit up in the night sky, accompanied by peals of strange laughter punctuated her attempts. Then she smelled something odd. _What is it_ , her sleepy mind wondered. _Smoke. Smoke!_

She sprang from her bed, grabbing her dressing gown, and ran down the hall toward the family quarters. _Was no one about? Did Judith and Edward stay the night in Collinsport? And what of the children?_ She thought she heard the strange laughter again, but now she was fully awake.

It was coming from the west wing, but arriving there she found no one there. Then she saw it. A thin plume of smoke escaped from the first door to the left—Quentin's rooms. She banged on the door, "Mr. Collins?" No answer. She turned the knob and entered unacknowledged and uninvited. An overturned candle lay by the foot of the bed—one end of the canopy curtains was alight.

Without thinking, Rachel grabbed the washbasin pitcher, and hurled the water onto the flames. The fire abated but still burned. "Mr. Collins!" she shouted. "Quentin!"

Quentin sat up, instantly alert. He saw at once the situation. Moving faster than Rachel thought possible, he pulled at the burning curtain until it ripped from the canopy and lay in a smoldering heap on the floor. He pulled the comforter from his bed and smothered the remaining embers, patting it hard until he was sure the fire was extinguished.

Quentin collapsed onto his knees, exhausted from the sudden effort and fright. "Are you alright? What happened?" he looked up at Rachel.

Rachel ran her hand through her hair. Quentin was there in nothing but his nightshirt and she was in his room … she realized that she hadn't bothered to put on her slippers, and her bare feet suddenly felt cold. "I smelled smoke," she said, finding her voice. "I was worried about the children, so I … I ran down the hall … and then …"

"Go on," Quentin urged her forcefully, rising to standing and taking hold of her shoulders.

"You're not going to believe me."

"Tell me," he shook her gently as he spoke.

"I heard laughter—strange, wild laughter. It led me here."

"Did you see anyone?" he asked.

"No, I didn't, but then I saw the smoke, and you know the rest." She went on, "You must have forgotten to blow out your candle before you went to sleep."

"And I suppose I left it here at the foot of the bed," he raised his voice. "And what about the laughter you heard? I supposed I did that too."

Her voice was steady in response to his frustration. "Then you believe me? You believe I heard that laughter?"

"Of course I do. And I didn't leave that candle there. Someone else was here. Someone tried to kill me."

Rachel looked at him closely, "Do you think …" She hesitated.

"Go on."

"Do you think it was Beth?"

"I don't know. Heaven knows she has reason to want me dead, but it doesn't seem like her—not like this anyway. But I'm going to find out," he sounded determined. "But not tonight." He was still holding Rachel's shoulders, and she was beginning to shiver. "You must be freezing," he said. "You should go back to bed."

"I'm not going to sleep tonight," she said though weariness began to set in. "And what about this?" She gestured to sodden curtains and comforter on the floor. "I should help you clean this up."

He put on his dressing gown. With his arm around her shoulder, he guided her towards the door. "Come on, I'll make sure you get back to your room safely," he said with as much chivalry as he could muster.

She smiled, "And who will make sure _you_ get back to your rooms safely?"

Casting chivalry aside he said cheekily, "Who says I'm coming back to my rooms?"

"I don't blame you for not wanting to be alone tonight. In truth, I feel the same, but I can't afford to …"

"Lose your job. I know," he said. By now, they were headed down the hall toward her room. "Which is why, I'm going to see you to your room, make sure you lock the door, and then go back to my rooms and do the same. I won't do anything to jeopardize your position here Rachel. I promise."

Now, outside of her room, Quentin turned to Rachel. Whether the result of their shared fright, or for some other reason, for a moment Rachel wished he would put his arms around her and make her feel safe and warm. Instead, he reached around her and opened the door. A chill draught emanated from the room. "I'll wait until I hear the lock turn," he said.

Brushing aside her momentary weakness with respect to the handsome Quentin Collins, Rachel smiled, "Thank you, Mr. Collins. Goodnight."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Throughout the story, I've presented the characters as they are in the show-not necessarily in their actions, but in their portrayals. My apologies if the characters of Magda and Sandor are offensive to some.

* * *

The Great House at Collinwood never seemed more peaceful than at daybreak. But for one young woman, that peaceful façade cloaks the effects of a restless night. Each night now Maggie Evens tried to keep her strange, unsettling dreams at bay by staying up reading until she could no longer resist sleep. She hoped sheer exhaustion would result in a dreamless night. But it was all to no avail.

This man—this apparition—served as some odd sentry night after night. Each night he appeared to her. Each night his look conveyed a sense of longing. Whoever he was, he was not a peaceful soul. His eyes were deep pools of mischief, pain, and anger, mingled with a kind of innocence and desire to be loved.

Last night as sleep merged into a dream, Maggie found him standing at her window, his back to her. He turned slowly to face her. His face was serious and grim, as if something beyond the window worried him. "Why are you here?" she asked in a soft voice. "Why won't you speak to me? At least _try_ to tell me what you want."

She reached for her peignoir and pulled it on over her nightgown, slipping her arms into the short sleeves. The length of its pink fabric pooled beside her on the bed. Only now did his face soften and take on a more playful mien. His lips curled into a half smile—lusty and teasing.

Maggie Evans woke for the third morning in a row to find a book open on her lap, and her nightstand lamp still illuminated from the previous night. She found her bookmark among the sheets, and marked her place in the book. Setting it aside, she rose to get ready for another day of lessons with David and Amy. She went and looked at herself in the mirror. Pulling her hair back from her face, she noticed the dark circles underneath her eyes that spoke of her restless nights. _If I don't get a decent night's sleep soon, no one will be interested in me_ , she thought, _not even my dream visitor_. A smile came to her face and with it, a reminder of how much a simple smile transformed her features.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

Rachel was shaken awake—literally. Nora Collins stood at her bedside gently shaking her shoulder. "Miss Drummond," she said. "Miss Drummond, wake up."

"Nora?" Rachel asked as she opened her eyes to the sight of her young charge beside her. "Nora, why are aren't you in bed? Why are you here?" The child was fully dressed.

Nora laughed. "It's time for our lessons. Jamison and I have been awake forever. We've had breakfast. We were waiting for you in the schoolroom. We waited so long, that I decided to come look for you."

Rachel sat up, still groggy. "What time is it?" she asked.

"It's after 9:00," the child chirped. "Are you alright?" she asked. "Should I go and get Aunt Judith?" Nora's brown hair had been brushed and curled. She was wearing a dark blue pinafore over a starched white blouse.

"No," Rachel said emphatically. "I just have a headache," she lied. But then, she could hardly tell the child the real reason she'd overslept. "I'll be fine. You go back to the schoolroom. I'll be there shortly. In the meantime, I want you and Jamison to work on the essays you started writing yesterday. I'm going to ask you to read them aloud later, so no playing instead of working."

"Yes Miss Drummond," Nora sighed.

"Run along now and tell Jamison." With that final instruction, Nora left Rachel to get dressed and join her young charges.

* * *

Following their morning lessons, Rachel sent Jamison and Nora to the small dining room off of the kitchen for their midday meal. More often than not, she would have joined them, but today she planned to walk to the Old House to retrieve a book from its strange inhabitant, Barnabas Collins.

Barnabas was a long-lost cousin from the English branch of the Collins family, who appeared one day for a visit and never left. Rachel found it odd the way he knew more about the history of the Maine branch of the family than they knew about themselves. Still, Barnabas seemed to be a generous man and he seemed to like her. He had offered to loan Rachel a history of the Collins family that he'd found in the library of the Old House. The "Old House" was once the Collins family home. It was considerably smaller than the Great House, much older and lacking the modern conveniences that had been added to the Great House. It had fallen into a state of disrepair, until Barnabas came from England to claim it. It's only inhabitants were a pair of gypsies who were favorites of the late Collins matriarch, Edith Collins.

Rachel planned to walk to the Old House while the children ate and rested; she hoped to ask Quentin Collins to accompany her. She thought it would provide a perfect opportunity to talk over the events of the previous night in complete privacy. It wouldn't be proper to go to his rooms, so she had to settle for hoping he'd emerged and was elsewhere in the house. Crossing the foyer, she noticed the drawing room doors were open.

Rachel approached the drawing room, and found Judith Collins sitting in the tri-part seat. Had she been unnoticed, she would have backed out quietly and gone in search of Quentin elsewhere. But Judith saw her at once.

"Ah, Rachel," she began as she rose from her seat, "How are you feeling? Nora told me you were unwell this morning."

"Thank you for asking Miss Collins. I'm feeling much better now. In fact, I'm planning to walk over to the Old House. Mr. Collins offered to loan me a book, and I thought I'd pick it up before afternoon lessons."

"Well, if you're sure you're up to it," Judith said.

"I am. I won't linger. I'll come right back," Rachel said, preparing to take her leave. She went and retrieved her shawl, and headed out the door toward the Old House.

* * *

Even on a sunny afternoon, Rachel felt a sense of foreboding on the short walk from the Great House to the Old House. Perhaps it was the woods, or the sound of the sea below Widows' Hill, or the cemetery that stood between the two houses, but whatever the reason, she could not avoid the feeling that something was amiss on the Collins estate.

Rachel knocked loudly on the door of the Old House and waited. She hoped Barnabas was about, and that the trip was not wasted. She waited. Then readied herself to knock one last time before heading back to the Great House. Just then, the door opened and she was greeted by Magda, one of the gypsies who continued to live at the Old House and act as servants to Barnabas.

"Eh, what are you doing here? What do you want?" was how the gypsy greeted Rachel.

"Hello Magda. Is Mr. Collins in?"

"No! He went to Bangor," Magda drawled. "Come back later. Maybe after dusk, eh?"

"Oh. He promised to loan me a book for Jamison and Nora's lessons. He led me to believe I could pick it up sometime today," was her disappointed response.

"A book, eh? Come—it's here." Magda led her through the foyer to the drawing room of the Old House.

While Magda went to retrieve the book from the bookshelf, Rachel noticed the gypsy's tarot cards spread on the table. "Do you read the cards?" Rachel asked.

"I'm a gypsy, no? Of course, I read the cards. I read them for Edith Collins all the time."

"Will you read them for me, Magda? I don't have any money."

"I read the cards for you now, perhaps later you do a favor for me?"

"Of course … I mean, if I can."

"Okay, sit."

Magda shuffled the cards, and laid them out in a specific pattern. One by one, she turned them over, face-side up.

"What do you see?" Rachel asked—her eyes expectant and hopeful.

"Hmmm … the Lovers … there is someone in your life, someone you care about … or perhaps there will be. He cares for you too." Then she turned over a few more cards. "The Moon," Magda's voice became serious. "The _Mooooooon_ ," she repeated. She closed her eyes and shook her head. "There is darkness ahead too—darkness and danger. You must beware. The Tower …" Magda's hand covered her mouth. She shook her head. "I fear for you Miss Drummond. You must be careful. Be careful who you choose to befriend."

Pointing to the final card, the Hanged Man, Rachel asked, "What does this one mean? Is it a bad omen?"

"No, not necessarily. It is hopeful, maybe." Magda gave her what she hoped would be a reassuring smile, but Rachel's face had gone pale.

"Well, I should be getting back to Collinwood." Rachel stood and picked up the book, _The Collins Family of Collinwood_ , from where Madga had placed it. "Thank you Magda."

"Many people are not happy they ask for a reading. Maybe you not happy, eh?"

"No, it's fine," but her countenance belied her words.

"No—it's a warning—and an opportunity, eh?"

Worry clouded Rachel's face, but she only said, "Thank you again. Would you please tell Mr. Collins I was here? I'll thank him personally next time I see him."

"Hmmm …" was all Magda said as she escorted Rachel to the door.

* * *

Late that afternoon, Quentin strode into the drawing room of the Great House in search of two things—a drink and Rachel. Following the events of the previous night, he had stayed awake pacing his room until the cock's crow heralded daybreak. Still he resisted returning to his bed. He knew that whoever had tried to kill him would not dare to try again in the light of day, but his bedchamber was in disarray, and smelt of smoke as though the fireplace flue was clogged. He sat in his sitting room to ponder which of his siblings, or the servants, or the strange array of visitors would want him dead and why. In time, he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

He woke to the sound of soft knocking on his door. He moved swiftly to the door. Opening it without asking who it was, he said "Rachel?" But he was surprised to find Beth instead. For some reason, he thought Rachel would come to check on him, and discuss the events that brought them together in the most unlikely way.

"Rachel?" she asked. "Why would she come to your rooms?"

"She wouldn't," he said flatly. "And why exactly are you here?"

Beth entered his sitting room without being invited. "I was worried about you. You haven't been out of your rooms all day." Her eyes cast about the room, and settled on the door to his bedroom, which was ajar. "What happened?" she asked as she crossed the room and pushed his bedroom door open. The sodden canopy curtain still lay on the floor. The room still smelled of the recently extinguished fire.

"An accident with a candle," he told her.

"Quentin, you should be more careful."

"Should I Beth? Because I wasn't responsible for setting the fire. There was someone else in my room last night—someone who set the fire. You wouldn't know anything about that would you Beth?"

"You don't think I would …" she started. She turned to leave, but he blocked her way.

Taking her firmly by the shoulders, he said, "I don't know what to think. If you want me to trust you, tell me what you know about the strange things that have been happening since I returned."

"I ca…" she began. Then she backtracked. "I don't know what you're talking about Quentin, but you should be more careful." Her voice broke bordering on panic.

He let go of her shoulders, pushing her away slightly in the process. "Go on then Beth. You really wouldn't want my sister to find out you were in my rooms again. Go on," he said, resigned. Then added in anger, "Go on. Get out!"

Beth ran from his rooms, tears gathering in her eyes.

Afterward, upon entering the drawing room, Quentin went directly to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a large brandy. The house seemed quiet. No one was about. Then he sensed that he was not alone. There was subtle movement from the drapes that hung in front of the bay window.

"Who's there?" Quentin called. "Come out. Show yourself!"

"Shush," came the response. "You'll give me away." Jamison Collins peeked out from behind the curtains. "Nora and I are playing hide and seek."

Quentin was relieved to see it was his young nephew. "Well, that's not much of a hiding place, Jamison. In a house like this, you can do much better than that."

"Nora's not very good at this game. If I hide in one of the better hiding places, she'll never find me," was the boy's reasonable response. "Sorry Uncle Quentin, but could you go now. She'll get here any minute."

"Fine, but tell me one thing. Do you know where Rachel is?"

"Miss Drummond said we could play until dinner. Then she went out on the terrace to get some air."

* * *

Rachel hadn't strayed far from the house. She had wanted to walk as far as the odd gazebo on the grounds of the estate, but she didn't dare leave Jamison and Nora unattended for that length of time. Instead, she took a few turns around the terrace. It was now so late in the afternoon that it was the cusp of evening. The sun was dropping low in the sky.

She knew she should be getting back to her young charges, but perverse obstinacy made her want to stay and observe the tower room. Not long after she arrived at Collinwood, she noticed the light in the tower room window. She'd been told—no, warned—to stay away from the tower. She'd been warned that the tower was old and in a state of disrepair, and no one was allowed there for their own safety. So when she saw the light late one night as she went to close her window, she mentioned it to Beth.

She was warned again. First Beth told her it was a trick of the light, nothing more. Then Miss Judith happened to remind Rachel that the tower was unsafe. Rachel knew then that Beth and Judith shared some a secret, and that the secret was in the tower.

Against her better judgment, against reason even, she followed Beth one evening. The blond woman took a shack of linens toward the tower. Rachel followed as quietly as she could. Watching from the end of the corridor, just as Beth drew out a set of keys to unlock the tower room, a floorboard creaked loudly, and Rachel was discovered.

Beth had been furious and threatening. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Are you following me?"

Rachel flushed and stammered, "I saw the light again, and when I passed by the steps, I thought I heard noises."

"You mean you came snooping around. You know if I tell Miss Collins she'll sack you. You'll have to go back to wherever you came from."

"Please don't do that," Rachel willed her voice to steady. She didn't want Beth to know how much she feared and loathed the idea of returning to Worthington Hall.

"I won't, if you stay out of my way and stay away from the tower."

Ever since that evening, Rachel had stayed away from the tower room, but her curiosity endured. And now, in the wake of the strange events of the previous night, she couldn't help but believe that the secret of the tower room, and Quentin Collins' close call were somehow related.

Rachel stood looking up at the tower room. The only illumination was the glow cast by sunset's orange rays.

"Rachel."

Her body jumped involuntarily. He appeared noiselessly behind her, like an apparition. "Mr. Collins, you startled me," she cried.

"I'm told I have that effect on women," he replied.

She felt her face flush mercilessly. Her hand went to her cheek as though to hide it. "Mr. Collins …" she began.

"I know," he broke in before she could finish, "my reputation precedes me. At least let me defend myself. What have you heard about me?"

At first Rachel demurred—it wasn't her place to repeat such things about a member of the Collins family.

"Come now," he parried, "after last night surely we're more to each other than that—confidants at least."

She considered for a moment. "They say that you seduced Beth, married someone else," now the dots of pink on her cheeks suffused her entire face and décolletage, "and then seduced and ran off with Edward's wife Laura."

"That's a lot to answer for," he said. "To begin with, Beth has always possessed certain charms, but seduced is perhaps overstating things a bit. In truth, I've enjoyed the flirtation. Like most men, I enjoyed having someone so attentive around. Unfortunately, she feels more for me than I do for her—especially after all that's transpired."

"Yet you go on leading her on." Rachel's voice betrayed the kind of disappointment she reserved for ill behavior on the part of her young charges.

"How else am I supposed to act?"

Rachel said nothing, but gave him a disapproving look.

Quentin continued. "It's true that I married someone else. She was beautiful and lively, funny and optimistic. I fell in love, or at least, I thought I did. I met her in Collinsport, courted her in secret, and then married her in secret.

"Things fell apart the minute we crossed the threshold of the so-called 'Great House'. Judith and Edward behaved abominably. They told me she would never fit in; she'd never be one of us; she wasn't good enough to marry into the Collins family—not even good enough to marry prodigal son, Quentin Collins.

"But they were wrong. It was I who wasn't good enough for Jenny—her name was Jenny. For the record, I didn't seduce Laura Collins—she seduced me. And god help me, Jenny paid the price. I'm telling you the absolute truth, Rachel—I believe Laura placed an enchantment on me, because I never looked at her, never thought of her, until one night. I thought everyone had gone to bed. The house was still and quiet. I couldn't sleep, so I came for a glass of brandy. When I entered the drawing room Laura was there. It was as though she anticipated my arrival. She had poured two glasses of brandy. She handed me one and invited me to stand by the fire with her. I can hardly tell you what happened after that, but we left Collinwood together the next night—traveled the world together—until she died. I returned home after that—the black sheep returned to the fold. You know the rest."

"Except what happened to Jenny," Rachel said.

"Yes—poor Jenny. Grandmamma tracked me down in Istanbul and sent word that Jenny went mad and had thrown herself off Widows' Hill. And now, Miss Drummond you know the whole truth about Quentin Collins. Are you shocked? Will you now recoil when you see me?"

"I know you think I've led a sheltered life at Worthington Hall, and in many ways I have, but I saw things, experienced things there that might not shock you, but would certainly shock your sister Judith. In the process, I learned a great deal about life, the human condition, and character. While I'm not excusing what you've done, at least you don't cloak yourself in false piety. I loath hypocrites who behave one way and pretend to be something else." Rachel gave him a grim smile. "I'll have to tell you my story sometime, but not now," she told him. "Look!"

By now the sun had dropped below the horizon, ushering in night. Somewhere in the distance, a lone dog howled. In the tower room, a light flickered for a few moments then went out. "Did you see it?" She turned and looked into face. His eyes were still fixed on the tower's narrow window.

"Where are Edward and Judith tonight?" Quentin asked.

"In Collinsport at the Town Council meeting. They're staying for dinner at the Inn."

"That's perfect. They'll be out for hours yet. When Jamison and Nora are having their dinner, we'll go up to the tower and take a look around."

"It's locked. Beth has a key, but there may be others. We need that key before we go anywhere."

"Okay, I'll just get it from Beth. Where did she have it?"

"In the pocket of her apron."

"So I'll go to her room and …"

"Borrow the keys while she's distracted by your charms." Rachel smiled and shook her head. Clearly Quentin was accustomed to using his handsome face and charming manner to get his own way. Without thinking, she took his hand, "Quentin, we need a _plan_. After what happened last night, we need to be careful."

"Ahem. I'm sorry to interrupt." Barnabas announced his arrival on the terrace.

All at once Rachel was aware how it must appear to the older Collins cousin. She quickly let go of Quentin's hand, and slipped into a more demure persona. She blushed and lowered her eyes. "Good evening, Mr. Collins."

"Cousin Barnabas," Quentin said expansively turning to face him, "If you've come to visit with Edward or Judith, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. They're in Collinsport for the evening."

"Actually, I'm here to see Miss Drummond," Barnabas replied with exaggerated cordiality. Tossing back the cape portion of his coat to reveal a book he was holding underneath, he said, "You see, I found this second volume of local history that I thought might interest you."

"Well then," Quentin turned and faced Rachel so that only she could see his expression. His raised his eyebrow to tease her about the older admirer. "I'll leave you to it." He took Rachel's hand and kissed it, bowing formally. "We'll resume our conversation tomorrow. And you needn't worry, I'll heed your sage advice. Goodnight Miss Drummond." Turning and nodding his head to Barnabas, "Cousin Barnabas." With that, he crossed the terrace and disappeared into the Great House.


	3. Chapter 3

Morning sun illuminating the Great House at Collinwood belies the secrets of its past inhabitants and the echoes of deeds committed long ago. One young woman struggles to find her place among its present inhabitants. Ever since she took up residence at the Great House, the new governess, Maggie Evans, has found its past intruding into her present.

On this morning Maggie sought out Elizabeth Stoddard, the Collins family matriarch. She found her at her desk in the study finishing some correspondence. She'd clearly been up and about for a while. She was, as always, impeccably dressed. Today she wore a navy blue and off-white sheath dress. Her hair was upswept in her usual fashion. She always seemed to dress to her station in life—no matter the circumstances—her appearance marked her as mistress of Collinwood.

"Good morning Mrs. Stoddard. I'm sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to remind you that I'm taking David and Amy into Collinsport today."

"Good morning Maggie. I hope that means you're feeling better," she turned to face the younger woman. "You _do_ feel better. I can see it in your face."

"Thank you. Yes, I am. Dr. Hoffman gave me something to help me sleep last night. For the first time this week, I slept really well."

"I'm so glad to hear it, Maggie. I was afraid you weren't settling in—that the change was too much for you. I'm so relieved because the children have really taken to you, as have I."

"I've taken to them too. Speaking of which, we should get going. We'll be back well before dinner time." With that she went upstairs to collect David and Amy for the drive into Collinsport.

The three of them piled into Maggie's small sedan. She preferred driving her own car to the hulking station wagon available to the Great House staff. David sat in the front beside Maggie, while Amy perched in the backseat between them, so that she didn't miss out on any of the conversation.

"Do we have to go see Professor Stokes?" David asked as soon as they got in the car.

"Of course we do" Maggie said firmly. "We're going to Collinsport to continue your lesson on the history of the area and the role of the Collins family in the development of this part of Maine. And Professor Stokes is an expert on local history."

"He's an expert on mumbo-jumbo."

"David!" Maggie scolded him with her tone.

"Well, that's what father says," the boy responded.

"It's one thing for your father to say so, but I'll hear no more of that from you. Is that clear?" Maggie hoped she sounded sufficiently stern.

"Yes, Maggie."

They drove in silence for a few moments before Maggie said, "Besides, when we're done with your lessons, I think we'll stop in at the coffee shop for lunch. If you're attentive and polite to Professor Stokes, that is."

Both David and Amy perked up. "Can I have a hamburger?" Amy asked. "And a milkshake?"

"Of course you can," Maggie said returning to her usual friendly manner.

"And can we sit at the counter?" David asked. "I really like sitting at the counter."

"Then, yes. Of course we can."

Maggie slowed slightly as there was a bend in the road as it wound through the woods. Suddenly, she slammed on the brakes. "Did you see him?" she cried—a look of terror in her eyes.

"See who?" David asked.

"I didn't see anyone," Amy chimed in.

Maggie put the car in reverse and backed up the lane to the point where she thought she saw the strange man from her dreams. He was dressed in 19th century attire—formal with a long coat with watch chain, starched white shirt, and a cravat. "He was right here," she said in an exasperated voice.

"It was probably one of those people in caravans that camp in the woods sometimes. When we get back you should tell Aunt Elizabeth. She'll send Sheriff Patterson to run them off," David concluded reasonably.

Maggie looked at the boy— _a Collins through and through_ she thought. Now she started to wonder what she'd seen, or even if she'd seen anything at all. Perhaps he was nothing more than a figment of her imagination. If her father had been alive, he would have calmed her nerves with a pat on the shoulder, and a corny but soothing aphorism. She missed him like mad.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

Rachel Drummond had very few options. The Reverend Gregory Trask claimed to abhor frivolity in all things. In service of his supposed abhorrence, Rachel, and indeed even Charity, Trask's own daughter, had a limited wardrobe of modest clothing. Even Rachel's deep purple Sunday-best dress seemed modest in comparison to Beth's workday dresses. Today Rachel chose a suitably modest muslin blouse, with a gray wool skirt. She laced her boots tightly. She double-checked that her chignon would survive a busy day, and went to begin Jamison and Nora's lessons.

As she walked down the hall that led from her bedchamber to the room that served as schoolroom to the children, she wondered what the day would bring. Each day in this strange house brought some new mystery or new revelation. She experienced a sense of validation when Quentin saw the light in the tower too. It was not that she doubted what she saw, but each denial from Miss Judith or Beth chipped away at her certainty. Now at last, someone believed her.

She had learned something of the enigmatic Quentin Collins too. On first acquaintance, he had seemed like the kind of man that Minerva Trask, the reverend's wife, constantly warned her and Charity about—pleasing manners, but with only one goal in mind—a goal that if achieved would irrevocably ruin a woman's reputation. Now, she could see that his pleasing manners and handsome face had bought him both companionship in a lonely world, and the censure of those around him whether deserved or not.

Arriving in the schoolroom, Rachel retrieved the wool plaid shawl she kept there to ward off the cold morning air. She pulled it tightly around her shoulders and tied the ends in a knot to secure it. She turned her attention to the lessons for the day. At Worthington Hall, everyday began and ended with devotional prayers, but here at Collinwood, Rachel could forego the prayers, and go directly to their lessons. She tried to vary the order so that the children did not become bored. Today, she would start with arithmetic while their minds were still fresh. Then, she planned to teach them some local history about colonial Maine. After lunch, she planned some time for the children to write and practice their penmanship. And if the weather stayed fair, they would conclude their day with a walk in the woods.

Just as she finished writing out the plan for the day on her small chalkboard tablet, the schoolroom door opened. Expecting it would be her young charges, she stood and prepared to greet them. She was surprised and flustered to see Quentin Collins instead.

"Mr. Collins," she began, but his raised eyebrow prompted an adjustment, "Quentin, what are you doing here?" She smiled, "I don't think I've ever seen you this early in the day."

He smiled too—that roguish smile that had undoubtedly melted many a heart. "I know. I can barely remember what morning looks like, but it was the only way I could think of to have a moment alone with you. We need a plan," he added with urgency.

"I think there are three sets of keys—your sister's, Beth's, and …"

"And?"

"Dirk Wilkins, the groundskeeper," she said. "He must have a key to every building and every room on the estate."

"Perhaps you could approach Dirk, gain his confidence, and steal the keys," Quentin said.

Rachel felt her face color. _Why must it always betray me_ , she thought. "Quentin," she began.

He interrupted her. "Don't worry. I said it in jest. I would never ask or expect that of you. No, I think our best chance is Beth."

Rachel took a deep breath, heartened. "So what's your plan?"

"I'll sneak into her room after she's asleep, find the keys …"

"What if she wakes up while you're there?" Rachel asked.

Quentin simply raised an eyebrow in response. Then he asked, "Have I shocked you Miss Drummond?"

"Actually, I was thinking that if you had occasion to offer her a brandy or two before she retires for the evening, it might work toward our purpose."

Now it was Quentin's turn to be shocked—and pleased. "Rachel, you _do_ surprise me."

"It's the very thing Mrs. Trask has repeatedly warned Charity and me about, so I suspect there's some truth in it," she said demurely, yet knowingly.

"Once I have the keys, I'll come and get you. Then we'll go up to the tower room together. I'll knock three times. Be ready."

"Quentin, if we get caught …"

"We won't," he said with authority.

"But if we do, I stand to lose my job. I can't—I _won't_ go back to Worthington Hall." Her eyes were wide, and her body trembled slightly.

"You're really terrified of going back there, aren't you?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

"Yes," she replied with finality.

"Then we'll have to make sure we don't get caught. But if we do, and dear Judith discharges you, I'll marry you and you can stay on here for as long as you like as Mrs. Quentin Collins," he laughed heartily.

Just then, they heard the sound of voices approaching. Jamison and Nora were bickering as they approached the schoolroom. "Am not," Nora was saying.

"Yes, you are. Scary cat," Jamison taunted.

Their bickering was forgotten as soon as they opened the schoolroom door and found Quentin there with Rachel. "Quentin!" the boy ran into his uncle's arms. "What are you doing here?"

"Yes, what _are_ you doing here?" Nora asked pointedly. Although Jamison had embraced Quentin's return to the family fold, Nora still viewed him with suspicion, suspecting his role in their mother's departure.

"I so rarely see Collinwood by morning light that I took a wrong turn on my way to the dining room, and ended up here by mistake." He winked at Jamison, who was clearly delighted.

"Well, whatever the reason for this intrusion, Mr. Collins should be leaving now. It's time for lessons to begin," Rachel said with forced formality.

"Nora, Jamison," he said to the children. Then turning to Rachel, he bowed formally, "Miss Drummond, until next time." With that he left, and closed the schoolroom door behind him.

* * *

All day, a part of Rachel's mind was distracted by their plans for the evening ahead. In every other way, the day progressed as had now become their routine. At the end of the day, the children begged to be freed from their penmanship lesson early to go for a walk in the woods. In truth, it would have served her purposes better to do so. It would have left her free to speculate about Quentin's prospects for success in obtaining the needed key to the tower room, or to ponder what might await them there if he proved successful. But one of the lessons that she took from her time teaching at Worthington Hall was that children needed discipline—not the discipline of the rod, or the cruelty of forced isolation—but structure, and a system of rewards and remediation.

So today, she struck a bargain with Jamison and Nora. If they truly applied themselves to their penmanship lesson, she would shorten it by half, and they could have a longer walk in the woods. After fifteen minutes of copying passages from books of poetry, Rachel deemed their efforts sufficient to have earned an extra-long walk in the woods.

Donning their coats, the three wandered through the woods all the way to Widows' Hill and back. Along the way, Rachel would devise little games both to teach them about local plants and wildlife, and to prevent them from bickering, which mostly took the form of Jamison teasing or needling Nora.

They arrived back at Collinwood just in time for the children to wash and get ready for their supper. Rachel, as was her custom, dined with the children in the small dining room. She was surprised when, after dinner, Beth arrived to tell her that Judith wanted to see her in the drawing room. Fearing the worst, she hardly knew what to expect. Perhaps she and Quentin were discovered somehow. But that hardly seemed likely given that Quentin's target was to be Beth, not Judith. All of this ran through her mind in the moment after she received the summons to the drawing room.

 _Nothing to do but steel myself and tough it out, come what may_ , she told herself as she followed Beth to the drawing room. Beth knocked softly then opened the door. "Here she is," Beth said by way announcing Rachel.

"Thank you Beth. You may go," Judith told her, with the kind of imperious authority reserved for the wealthy. And then to Rachel, "Come in Rachel. Please come in."

Judith sat at the end of the davenport nearest the fire. "Please sit down."

Rachel was so unaccustomed to being asked to sit in this room, that she awkwardly looked around, unsure of which seat to take. In the end, she sat in the one of the tri-part seats—the one facing Judith. She waited, as would a criminal, for her sentence to be announced.

"I've taken up needlepoint," Judith announced, as she gestured to the workbasket beside her on the couch. "I find it very relaxing but very solitary," she said, her voice tinged with melancholy. "I am hoping you'll sit with me this evening, Rachel. Edward is in town again this evening; Carl, as you know, is still away from home; and Quentin keeps to his own apartment a great deal these days. I know Edward wouldn't think it proper—my asking you to join me—but, in truth, I miss female companionship. It's been sorely lacking in this house since our grandmother died."

Rachel was taken aback. "Certainly, Miss Collins. I'd be happy to. I think I understand how you feel. When I was at Worthington Hall, I had Charity Trask as a daily companion. It's true that we bickered like sisters, but we always made it up in the end."

Judith responded with more energy than before, "I know you enjoy reading. There's a small, but good collection in the library. Please select whatever you like."

Rachel returned a short time later, having selected two volumes of poetry, including Shakespeare's sonnets. It had been a long time since she last read them, as they were deemed frivolous by Trasks, and thus unsuitable to be taught at Worthington Hall.

As they sat in companionable silence, Judith focused on her needlepoint, while Rachel under the guise of reading allowed her mind to drift … to wonder how Quentin fared with his mission to obtain the keys to the tower room.

* * *

Quentin stayed close to his rooms all day. He'd asked the cook to prepare a cold lunch tray to take to his room for his midday meal. And later, he'd asked her to prepare a dinner tray as well. He had only to turn his charm on the old woman, who still called him Master Quentin, and spoke of remembering him in short pants as a boy.

Now he sat, polishing off a plate of roasted chicken and potatoes, thinking about how best to approach Beth, and how to ply her with brandy. It was a good plan, because it would serve two purposes. It would produce a sound sleep and it would put her off her guard where he was concerned. He knew her well enough to know that she would protest briefly of his past treatment of her, but then acquiesce to whatever he wanted. He would have wanted her more, _respected_ her more, if she showed any conviction of her ill treatment by him. Instead, they were trapped in an endless cycle; neither of them knew how to end it. He would keep using her, because she was available to be used; and she would keep allowing herself to be used in hope that he would fall in love with her.

He knew he could not just show up at the door to her room with a bottle of brandy. He must invite her to his room, share a drink or two, and then persuade her to leave. After dinner, once she saw Nora and Jamison to their rooms would be the ideal time. The children would be in their rooms, Judith would be in the drawing room, Dirk Wilkins, the groundskeeper, would be out doing his nightly patrol, and the fair Rachel … well, it would be best for all if he tried _not_ to think about that.

Quentin decided to wait for Beth just out of sight near Nora and Jamison's rooms. He would wait until he heard their doors close then he would pretend to run into her—a chance meeting. He hated wasting time like this, but he hated mysterious late night visitors setting fires in his rooms even more. Beth had stonewalled him when he asked her directly. So as he saw it, it was her own fault that he had to trick her into relinquishing the keys.

He was pleased when this straightforward plan bore fruit so quickly. He lurked strategically a half a flight of steps up at the end of the corridor that housed Nora and Jamison's rooms. He sat on the steps waiting until he heard her wishing Nora goodnight. Then, taking the stairs two at a time, he arrived at the end of the corridor just in time to greet her as she turned to leave.

"Quentin! What are you doing here?" she almost demanded.

"Would you believe I came looking for you?" he responded in a creamy tone.

"No, I wouldn't." Her voice was harsh. _That is always her opening gambit_ , he thought. He would thaw her chilly exterior before long.

"You're right of course. I think I left my penknife in Jamison's room earlier. I came looking for him, but they were off walking in the woods, or something. But as long as we're both here, why don't you join me for a drink? It seems like ages since we had a cozy drink together in my rooms. What do you say?"

"I say no, Quentin."

"And why not, Beth?" he asked disingenuously.

"You pick me up and put me down more often that Nora does her doll. But I'm not a doll, Quentin. I'm a flesh and blood woman," tears welled in her eyes. "And I'm tiring of being played with." She regained her composure, and he felt truly bad for what was about to transpire. "What do you want of me?"

"Just this," he took her by the shoulders and kissed her deeply.

"Oh Quentin, if only I could believe in you."

He released her arms. There it was. She was hooked. With as little as a kiss—a kiss from a perfidious scoundrel—she was hooked again. Something bordering on contempt crept into his heart. "You can believe this—there's nothing I want more than to see you in my rooms, to share a night cap together … I promise I won't compromise you."

"I can't," she protested.

"Can't or won't?" he demanded.

"I can't," she said. "I still have chores to do for your sister."

"Then, when will be you be done?" he persisted.

"In an hour, give or take. I'll come to you then."

He smiled, satisfied, yet ashamed too.

* * *

Rachel began to worry that their plan would fall apart when the clock in the foyer chimed and signaled 9:30. She sat thinking about how to extricate herself from her companion, when a knock came at the door of Collinwood.

"I'll get it," she said to Judith, who made no move to answer it anyway.

Opening it, Rachel was somewhat surprised to see Barnabas Collins. "Why Rachel, I didn't expect to see you this evening. May I come in?"

"Of course, Mr. Collins." She ushered him in. "Miss Collins and I are in the drawing room."

Barnabas followed her in. "Cousin Judith, I hope it's not too late for a visit. I was organizing some books in the library and lost track of the time. Still, I was in need of a walk and found myself here. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all Cousin Barnabas. You're always welcome here. Do come in and join us." Barnabas took a seat beside his cousin on the couch. "We've been passing the evening companionably together, but I fear that Rachel is flagging and is too polite to say so."

Rachel saw her opportunity and decided to take it. She rose from the tri-part seat and prepared to take her leave. "I hope you don't mind if I take my leave now. The children and I walked out to Widows' Hill and back this afternoon. I must confess I am feeling a bit tired."

Barnabas looked concerned. "You must be careful out on Widows' Hill," he began. "The bluffs can be quite treacherous."

"Thank you for your concern, Mr. Collins, but I never allow the children to go out on the bluffs," she replied with patience she did not feel.

Barnabas smiled a sad smile, "It's just that the hill's reputation is so tragic. I can't help but worry—and not just about the children—but about you as well."

Rachel chose not pursue it further. Instead she said, "I'll wish you both goodnight."

"Goodnight Rachel. I very much enjoyed your company this evening," Judith told her.

Barnabas stood formally, bowed, and said, "Goodnight Miss Drummond. I hope to see you again soon."

With that, Rachel backed out of the room, closing the double doors of the drawing room on the tableau of the two cousins conversing on the couch. She headed at once up the stairs to her room to await Quentin's arrival.

* * *

While Rachel was passing time in the drawing room with Judith, Quentin was finding his task far more taxing. Nearly an hour and a half passed before Beth was able to join him in his rooms. He resisted the temptation to steel himself with a glass of brandy. Instead, he paced his outer room impatiently.

When, at last, she arrived, she looked slightly bedraggled. A number of strands escaped her usually controlled coif, and her apron was streaked with dirt, but there was color in her cheeks, which was appealing. For a moment, Quentin wished he could simply ask her for the keys rather than carry through with his plan. But if she refused, he would have tipped his hand. What's more he owed it to Rachel to follow through whatever his misgivings. She had put herself at risk on his behalf.

"I shouldn't have come like this," Beth gestured to her appearance.

"You look fine, but you do look like you could use this," he said as he handed her a large brandy. Her hands were cold to the touch as he placed the glass in them. "Your hands are like ice. Come over to the fire," he said as he led her nearer the fireplace. He leaned against the narrow mantelpiece watching her take large sips of brandy to warm herself.

They stood in silence for several minutes. At last, Quentin broke the silence by asking, "So, what did dear Judith have you doing so late this evening?" Beth's entire countenance changed. It was as though a wall went up between them. Quentin had been on his side of this particular wall before. "And there it is," he said. "Our tête-à-tête is ruined."

"It doesn't have to be," she returned. "But I work for _Judith_. She's the mistress of the house and all of the servants serve at her pleasure. I can't afford to endanger my job. So I do as Miss Judith asks me and keep her confidences when asked."

"So there are confidences to be kept," he began. "Even from me?" he resumed his charming tone and manner.

"Especially from you," she responded with more candor than she intended.

Quentin pounced on it at once with a new edge in his voice. "What does that mean, Beth?"

"I've already said too much. It's late and I'm tired." She threw back the remainder of the brandy. Her face contorted in response to its alcoholic burn. "I should have known better than to come here."

"And I should have known better than to expect you to trust me," he retorted angrily.

"Goodnight Quentin," she spat out his name like an epithet.

"Beth," he said as he opened the door for her, and watched her leave.

* * *

Later that evening, Rachel awaited Quentin's arrival. He would come to her room whether he'd been successful or not. If not, they would decide whether to carry on, or forget it altogether. She picked up a book and then set it down again. She paced. Then she stopped and looked out of the window, turning her body just so to catch a sliver of the tower room window. A dull light flickered and was gone—a candle extinguished. She was sure of it!

Quentin knocked three times—softly and slowly—the agreed upon signal. Rachel opened the door quickly and Quentin stepped in. She closed the door, and allowed her face to ask the question. He produced Beth's keys in one hand, and silently showed her a small revolver with the other. Rachel's eyes widened, but she said nothing. They were ready—ready to encounter whoever or whatever lived in the tower room.

Rachel opened the door and peeked out to make sure no one was in the hallway. Then silently they made their way down the corridors that led to the stairs at the base of the tower room. Quentin had to try two keys before finding the key to unlock the stairway door. All the while, Rachel acted as sentry, watching and listening for any approaching footsteps. None came. They were in.

On the landing at the top of the stairs, Quentin turned to Rachel and whispered, "I'll go in; you stay here. Let me know if anyone comes."

"I'd rather come with you," she whispered back. "You might need my help."

"I'll be fine, and I'd rather you were out of harm's way."

It was hardly the time or place to argue, so she relented, dismayed by his sudden streak of gallantry.

As he tried keys in search of the one to unlock the tower room door, Rachel waited at the top of the stairs. But her feet seemed to have a will of their own, as they slowly backed her toward the door. At last, Quentin found the key that turned the lock. By then, Rachel was stationed no more that a few feet away—shivering slightly in the cold hallway. Quentin went in. A minute passed, then another. Finally, he came out and whispered, "You may as well come in. We're too late."

Rachel followed him back into the room. They could see now that it was little more than a cell. There was a narrow bed against one wall, and a table that probably once held a washbasin. The room was empty of everything else. Rachel took a good look around the room. The bed was denuded of linens, but she caught sight of a small hint of color—a deep red ribbon was left behind, tucked beneath the corner of the mattress. The only other sign of recent occupancy was a candle burnt well down left on the windowsill. Rachel brought it to her nose and sniffed. It had been recently extinguished.

Rachel turned and her eyes met Quentin's. He looked disappointed and let down, but Rachel felt vindicated. Someone had been here—and not long ago. It stood to reason that whoever it was had only recently vacated the tower room and might yet be in Collinwood.


	4. Chapter 4

Dusk falls over the Great House at Collinwood. With it, the sunset fuels the anxieties of one young woman. Maggie Evans, governess to the children of the house, has been troubled by dreams and waking visions of a stranger unmoored from his own time.

Maggie headed to the drawing room, reading material in hand. Tonight the house was eerily quiet. So Maggie was relieved to find Dr. Hoffman reading beside the fireplace.

"Good evening Julia. I didn't know you were in this evening." Dr. Julia Hoffman had come to the Great House ostensibly to research a book, but her real purpose was to investigate the many odd happenings on the estate. Now she stayed on as a guest of the family—dividing her time between the Great House and the Old House, as she had become a particular friend of Barnabas Collins, who lived there.

"Hello Maggie. Yes, I just walked back from the Old House. It's very quiet here this evening. Where is everyone?" Julia had a way of making every situation seem mysterious.

"Mr. Collins—Roger—is still in Boston. Mrs. Stoddard took David and Amy to see a movie in Bangor."

"And Carolyn?"

"At the Blue Whale with Tony Peterson."

"Tony Peterson?" Julia asked with a raised eyebrow.

Maggie sat in an armchair positioned near the fireplace and across from the couch where Julia sat. The latter had set her book aside for the moment. "Yes. He's returned to Collinwood, as suddenly as he left—and with no word of explanation as to where he's been or why."

"And he and Carolyn are picking up where they left off, I suppose." Julia, as a noted psychiatrist and an accomplished professional woman in her own right, was well past the age of caring about the dating crises of the younger residents of the Great House. Still, she found Tony's sudden departure and unexpected return, fascinating. It was just another example of the type of Collinwood mysteries big and small that kept her there in spite of the existence of more worthy pursuits.

"Yes," Maggie sniffed in disapproval. Then recollecting herself, she added, "I shouldn't judge her too harshly. Collinsport is hardly awash in eligible young men, and before Cassandra came to town, everyone could see how much he liked Carolyn."

Julia, as was often the case, knew more about the mysterious, seductive Cassandra than she let on, and swiftly redirected the conversation.

"And what about Chris Jennings? I thought he and Carolyn were an item." Julia was hardly one for idle gossip, but Chris Jennings' plight was of significance to her.

"Carolyn said he's too erratic. He seemed into her one day, and then broke it off the next. He seems like he likes her, but he keeps pushing her away. Sometimes, I don't understand men at all," Maggie managed small chuckle, mostly for Julia's sake.

"And you Maggie? No plans this evening?"

Maggie looked down, and worried her book in her hands. "Just planning to curl up with a good book," she offered Julia a wan smile.

"I thought the mild sedative I prescribed was helping," Julia said knowingly.

"They are but I can't take them every night, and …" Maggie's voice fell away.

"And?" Julia probed.

"And, I didn't want to say anything, not to a psychiatrist …"

"What about to a friend?" the older woman asked.

"Well, you know I've been having these dreams …"

"The ones about the man from the past …" Julia supplied.

"Yes. The other day, the day after I took the sleeping pills—well, I slept through the night—no dreams. But … but then later, I thought I saw him in the woods. I was driving the kids into town and when we rounded the bend, there he was. But when I backed up, he was gone. And David and Amy saw nothing." Her tale came out in rush of words.

Julia looked at her with interest. "Maggie, you've suffered a great deal of loss recently," the psychiatrist began. "Perhaps there's more to this than a series of recurring dreams."

"I think so too. Julia, you once helped me by putting me under hypnosis." The psychiatrist looked uncomfortable. "Would you do it again? Would you hypnotize me?"

"To what end Maggie? That was completely different. Then, you were disturbed—now you're merely upset. What do you think we can uncover through hypnosis?"

"Maybe I know him. Maybe I've seen him somewhere before! There must be an answer, and maybe it's locked away in my subconscious. Please Julia. Will you try?"

* * *

Collinwood 1897

One of the mysteries of the Great House at Collinwood was how in a house so large, you could constantly run into those you wished to avoid, and never run into those you wished to see—or so it seemed to Quentin Collins.

While borrowing Beth's keys had proved easy, returning them was more of a challenge. Leaving the tower room, Rachel and Quentin had gone separate ways. Rachel, he assumed, returned directly to her room. He had taken the back staircase toward the servant's quarters to Beth's room. He nearly ran into Dirk Wilkins in the corridor, but spotted him just in time. He waited for Dirk to leave and finish his nightly rounds. But the groundskeeper lingered and lingered. Quentin could hardly go and find out what Dirk was doing there for so long, so instead he waited. Perhaps the groundskeeper was working up his courage to knock at Beth's door—to try his luck with her. But it seemed awfully late at night for that.

Quentin didn't care for Dirk Wilkins. Dirk clearly entertained notions of having Beth for himself. Had Quentin been in love with Beth, he would have attributed his dislike to jealousy. But no, it wasn't that. It may have been the way he sought to ingratiate himself with Judith. In very little time, Judith trusted him and empowered him relative to the other servants. Or perhaps it was simply that Dirk carried himself with an air above his station in life or his situation in the household.

When at last Dirk retreated from the corridor outside Beth's room, Quentin crept in, and replaced the keys in her apron pocket, which hung on a rack just inside the door. As a floorboard creaked, Beth shifted and heaved a sleepy sigh. Quentin froze, not fearing detection, but not welcoming it either. Then she settled, allowing Quentin to leave undetected.

* * *

The following day, Quentin made a rare morning appearance in the family dining room. He found his sister Judith languidly finishing her morning repast.

"Good morning Judith," he said with forced enthusiasm. "You look lovely this morning."

"Quentin, to what do I owe this honor?" his sister responded.

"Isn't the pleasure of seeing you enough," he countered in kind.

"Really Quentin, must you be so childish."

"You started it," he taunted her in jest. Then turning more serious, "Actually, I was hoping to see Edward."

"I'm afraid you'll be disappointed then. He's in Bangor."

Quentin was surprised, "What? So early?"

"If you must know, he stayed the night there. Why the sudden interest in Edward's comings and goings?"

"That, dear sister, is between my brother and me," he said as he turned to leave.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she asked.

"What would that be, Judith?"

"Your breakfast?"

Quentin smiled affably, "Why Judith, it's far too early for breakfast. I'll get a tray at a more civilized hour."

In truth, Quentin had hoped to question Edward about who had been living in the tower room and why. He doubted he'd have any success with Judith. Judith's strong will and determination to best her brothers had earned her their grandmother's trust and now she was mistress of Collinwood as a result. Although Quentin and his brothers Edward and Carl were provided for in the old woman's will, it was Judith in control of the estate. And she'd wasted no time in asserting her authority.

Quentin believed Edward would be the weak link. He would give up what he knew more easily than Judith. If Quentin couldn't coerce it from him, he would goad him until anger cracked his façade. But with the current turn of events, Quentin needed to adjust his plan. He wished he could talk it over with Rachel. In their short, but intensifying acquaintanceship, he'd come to realize that there was more to Rachel than simply being a governess. She was smart in ways not learned from books. She seemed worldly beyond that which her experience and situation would suggest. Yet, she hid it well, as though the persona of the shy governess served her purpose better.

He was feeling at loose ends. He'd not counted on Edward being away, and now he needed to rethink how to proceed. He ambled slowly down the corridor away from the family dining room. He reached the end of the corridor where it teed into two branches. One direction led to the back stairs to the family quarters; the other direction led to the kitchen, and beyond it to the stairs to the lower level—the basement. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a blur of movement in blue. It was Beth. She was carrying what appeared to be a breakfast tray. She stopped to balance it on one arm, while she opened the door with her other hand. Then she was gone.

 _Should I follow her_? he thought. It had been years since he'd last been in the basement. Long ago, when he and Carl were young, they would find their way down there, and explore it by candlelight. All at once, he decided it was worth the risk. He stole quietly down the hall and ducked inside the door.

It was dark, but not as dark as he remembered from exploring with Carl. He stood and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He pressed his back against the wall of the staircase, and felt his way slowly down the stairs, trying hard not to make any sound. What he remembered of the basement was that there were a few storage rooms off of a central corridor, and big open space at the end of the corridor. When he was young that space was filled with old furniture. One of the storage rooms housed the special wines and sherries, which his grandmother kept under lock and key. But as to what was in the other rooms, he and Carl never knew and never cared.

He paused just before he reached the bottom step. Though he couldn't see Beth, he could hear her. Clearly she was unaware of his presence. He could hear her keys jingle, and then turn the lock to one of the rooms.

"Good morning," he heard Beth say in a singsong voice that one might use to a child. "I've brought you some breakfast. Everything you like best," she said.

Then Quentin heard the door close heavily. The lock turned and the heavy door muffled all other sounds.

He waited and waited. Still Beth did not emerge. As more time passed, his patience waned, and his hunger increased. He crept back upstairs, and headed toward the kitchen. He would take a tray back to his rooms. Later he would return to the basement to investigate each of the storage rooms, one-by-one.

* * *

While there was no such thing as a "normal" day at Collinwood, the day was as close to normal as Rachel could envision. It began with morning lessons in the schoolroom—spelling and recitation drills. This was followed by lunch in the small dining room. Rachel spent most of it reminding Jamison that it is impolite to speak with his mouth full, and Nora snickering throughout. Then they returned to the schoolroom for arithmetic and history. Finally, they ended the day with a walk toward the Old House. Jamison ran ahead, while Nora held Rachel's hand and prattled on about the imaginary lives of her dolls. But as evening was coming on, they truncated their walk. Both Rachel and Nora noted an animal howl as the sun dropped low in the sky, signaling it was time to return to the Great House.

The day was so normal in fact, it was hard to believe that just the night before she and Quentin were searching the tower room. All day she half-expected Quentin to show up in the schoolroom or the small dining room with some flimsy excuse, and a desire to talk over their discovery of the previous night. But he never came.

She had her evening meal, as she often did, with her young charges in the small dining room. She preferred it to the idea of dining with the other servants in the kitchen dining room. She could think of few things she'd enjoy less than having a meal while Beth glowered at her, and Dirk made eyes at Beth. So as often as she could, she took her meals with Jamison and Nora. Tonight, Jamison was entertaining them with his plan to accompany his father on his next trip to Boston.

"Have you ever been to Boston, Rachel?" Jamison asked her.

"I have," she said, feeling unwelcome warmth suffuse her face. "But it seems like a long time ago now. I'm sure it will have changed, but I know you'll like it—so much to see and so much to do," she added.

"I want to go too," Nora chimed in.

"You're too young," Jamison chided her. Several minutes of childish bickering ensued.

Rachel preferred these familial moments with Jamison and Nora to any others she experienced at Collinwood, or anywhere else in her life. She felt decidedly let down when Beth arrived to take the children upstairs to bed.

"And Miss Collins would like you to join her in the drawing room again this evening," Beth sniffed at her as a parting shot.

"Thank you Beth," she said with as much neutrality of voice as she could muster. And then added to the children, "Nora, Jamison—sleep well. I'll see you in the morning." With that she headed upstairs to wash up before joining Judith Collins in the drawing room.

* * *

Rachel knocked softly on the drawing room door, and then entered when bidden to do so by Judith Collins. She found Judith much as she had been the night before—sitting by the fire, needlepoint in hand. Tonight she wore a high-neck burgundy colored dress, with ivory lace trim—very prim.

"Ah, Rachel, thank you for joining me. I enjoyed your company last evening, and hope you'll oblige me again this evening."

"Of course," Rachel responded with genuine warmth, for she could easily understand the isolation of a woman in Judith's situation. "I was reading sonnets yesterday. I'd be happy to read them aloud, if you like," she offered.

"Very much."

A few moments later, Rachel returned with the volume of sonnets, took her place beside the fire, and began to read.

Rachel read several of the sonnets in her clear schoolteacher voice. And between poems, she found Judith eager to talk about them the language and the meaning of each.

Rachel began the next one.

 _"Let me not to the marriage of true minds_

 _Admit impediments. Love is not love_

 _Which alters when it alteration finds,_

 _Or bends with the remover to remove:_

 _O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,"_

* * *

Quentin stood poised to enter the drawing room, when he heard a voice within. He waited, listening. It was Rachel, reading aloud.

 _"That looks on tempests and is never shaken;_

 _It is the star to every wandering bark,_

 _Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken._

 _Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks_

 _Within his bending sickle's compass come;_

 _Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,_

 _But bears it out even to the edge of doom._

 _If this be error and upon me proved,_

 _I never writ, nor no man ever loved."_

Quentin timed his entry just as Rachel finished reading the poem. He entered to see Rachel perched at the edge of the armchair, book in hand. Judith sat at the far end of the davenport nearest the fire. Both looked up as he entered.

"Good evening ladies. May I join you?"

"Quentin …" Judith began admonishingly.

Quentin held up his hands, "I promise I'll behave." Judith silently acquiesced. "Brandy?

"Yes, please," Judith responded. Rachel's expression clearly communicated her refusal.

Quentin served Judith, and then took a seat in the tri-part seat facing Rachel. She opened the book and began,

 _"Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all,_

 _Wherein I should your great deserts repay,_

 _Forgot upon your dearest love to call,_

 _Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;_

 _That I have frequent been with unknown minds,_

 _And given to time your own dear-purchased right;_

 _That I have hoisted sail to all the …"_

A loud, urgent knock interrupted her mid-sentence. "Come in," Judith commanded.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Dirk Wilkins stood there looking slightly winded; his face looked flushed.

"What is it Dirk?" Judith asked with thinly veiled irritation.

"May I speak with you?"

"What? Now? Can't it wait until tomorrow?" she asked in an imperious voice.

"I'm sorry Miss Collins, but it is important," he told her.

She looked him up and down. Her eyes focused on his trademark jodhpurs and riding boots. "Fine, but your boots aren't fit for the drawing room. Please take them off before you enter," she said, more to assert her authority than from any real need.

Dirk went to sit on the steps across the foyer to remove his boots, while Quentin took momentary satisfaction in seeing Judith take him down a peg or two.

Rachel stood and said to Judith, "Well, it seems we are to end there for this evening."

"Thank you Rachel. I've enjoyed it."

Then Rachel turned to Quentin and asked, "Mr. Collins, I was hoping for a stroll before retiring this evening. Would you be so kind as to escort me as far as the gazebo and back?"

"I'd be delighted," Quentin responded, rising from his seat.

"Rachel," Judith said as they reached the door to the drawing room.

"Yes Miss Collins," Rachel turned, expecting the worse.

"Do be sure to take a wrap. It's likely to be chilly out this evening."

"Thank you. I will. Goodnight."

* * *

A short time later, Quentin escorted Rachel across the terrace and away from the Great House toward the odd gazebo at the edge of the Collinwood garden. "You seem to be filling Judith's desire for a younger sister, Rachel," Quentin was saying.

"I don't mind," she responded.

"Tell the truth—you were happy to see me."

"Alright, I was. Just as I was happy to see your cousin Barnabas last evening," she added in a teasing tone.

"Barnabas?"

"Yes. He came by rather late in the evening. I took his arrival as an opportunity to wish Miss Collins goodnight."

"It seems to me that wherever you are, my cousin isn't far behind."

"It's odd though. He turns up at the strangest times. And then, when he offered me the loan of a book, and I went to retrieve it, he was away in Bangor."

"Yes, odd indeed," Quentin said and then diverted Rachel's attention away from his odd cousin and his strange behavior. "So you enjoy reading aloud to my sister, do you?"

"If I'm completely honest, I think it's better than being in my room for hours listening for strange noises and worse."

"About that, I know where the mystery guest is staying now."

Rachel was instantly excited, "How? Where?"

"I followed Beth this morning. She took a tray to one of the rooms in the basement. It was dark and I couldn't be sure which room, but tomorrow I plan to follow her again, and confront whoever they're hiding down there."

"Quentin, perhaps you should try to find out the truth from Edward. I know he's away at the moment, but perhaps you should wait—at least until he returns."

"My dear Rachel, do you know where Edward is _at the moment_?"

"Jamison said he went to Bangor on business."

By now they'd reached the gazebo. Rachel followed Quentin up the few stairs. He paused and half sat on the railing.

"Up to Bangor, or down to Boston … wherever he went, he went in search of an endless bottle and some easy female companionship. I'll give him this though, when he goes on a bender, he has the good taste to do it away from Collinsport—unlike me, or at least that's what Judith would say."

"I see," was all she said.

"That's it?" Quentin asked incredulously.

"I could feign shock or dismay or disappointment, but I'd only be doing so to fulfill your expectations," she said decidedly. Then she turned the conversation back to their purpose, "At least let me come with you."

"No Rachel. It's too dangerous."

"All the more reason why you shouldn't go alone."

"I have a pistol, and I'm not afraid to use it," he told her with finality, rising to his full height and standing before her.

Rachel sighed and her lips pressed into a thin, unhappy line. "When?"

"Tomorrow. I'll just have to wait for an opportunity." She sighed again. Quentin took her by the shoulders and brought his forehead close to hers. "Don't look so worried."

"At least, promise me you'll be careful," she whispered.

"I will—I promise."

They turned and walked back to the Great House, unaware that Barnabas watched them all the while from the edge of the woods.


	5. Chapter 5

As day fades into early evening at the Great House in Collinwood, two women embark on a journey of discovery—one that is not measured by the distance traveled—but by the contours of one woman's subconscious.

* * *

"Look at the medallion. Follow it with your eyes. Clear your mind of all distractions … all other thoughts. Focus only on the medallion, and listen to the sound of my voice."

Maggie's brown eyes stared at the medallion—intertwining strands of gold twisted to and fro on the end of a gold chain. Maggie followed it with her eyes—first one direction, then the other. Gradually she surrendered her will, and focused only on the medallion. Her awareness of everything else fell away.

"Lift your left hand Maggie," Julia told her. Maggie lifted her left hand. "Good. You may lower it." And Maggie obeyed. "Now Maggie, close your eyes." Maggie closed her eyes. "Good." Then she added, "Now, this is important, Maggie. When I say 'Come back Maggie' you will wake and you will remember everything that happened. Nod if you understand." Maggie nodded. "Good. Now tell me where you are. Tell me what you see."

The young woman began, "I'm at Collinwood. In the drawing room at Collinwood."

"Oh?" Julia Hoffman was not given to second guessing herself, but for a moment she wondered whether the young governess was in a hypnotic trance.

In her mind's eye, Maggie stood and looked around the drawing room. Her hand went to her throat. She wore a high-necked purple dress. It was long and made of a dense silk. "These are not my clothes," she cried aloud. "Why am I dressed like this?" she asked her voice rising and tinged with panic.

"It's alright Maggie. You're safe. You're at Collinwood in the drawing room."

"Yes," Maggie said. "But everything is so different … the furnishings … and …"

"And?" Julia prompted her.

"There's music."

 _The sweep of her purple gown rustled as she turned to go in search of the music. It was an old fashioned waltz— a scratchy recording of an old musical piece. It kept repeating, over and over again, leading her on toward it. Up the stairs, and down the hall, she went in search of it. It led her to the door of the west wing of the Great House. But it wasn't locked as it usually was. It opened as she turned the doorknob; the door swung open._

 _She followed the corridor toward the music. She stopped outside of the door from which the music emanated. Would_ he _be there? She hesitated even as her hand reached for the doorknob. But in the end her curiosity won out over fear. She opened the door._

 _The music was coming from an old gramophone. Its horn was painted inside in an ornate floral pattern. A well-worn record spun. And he was there. He looked so different from the times he'd appeared to her. He looked sad—so very sad. There were tears in his eyes. Then he dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders shook as he sobbed._

"Come back Maggie," came Julia's urgent voice. "Come back Maggie!" the older woman had taken hold of her shoulders and was shaking her.

"Julia?" Maggie asked as she gradually came out of the trance. "What happened?"

"I was going to ask you that. You're crying."

Maggie reached her hand to her face and felt the tears. "I … I don't know."

"But you saw him," Julia stated. "You said he was sad, and then you started to cry. Why, Maggie? What happened?"

"Nothing. I saw him, and he looked so sad, but I couldn't speak to him and he couldn't see me."

"What else? Did you learn who he is or where he's from?"

"No," Maggie responded hesitantly.

"You said you were in the drawing room. Was he here with you?"

Maggie looked away. "Yes," she lied.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

Sandor was a gypsy who lived at the Old House on the Collinwood estate, first as a guest of Edith Collins, the recently deceased family matriarch, then as a servant to Barnabas Collins, when he took occupancy of the dilapidated mansion. In point of fact, Sandor was more than a servant to Barnabas. While searching the old Collins mausoleum for a fabled treasure trove of jewels, he instead discovered and freed the century-old vampire. He'd been rewarded by receiving the bite of the vampire and becoming enslaved as a result.

Now Sandor spent his days ensuring that Barnabas was protected from all comers and his nights doing whatever the vampire required of him. On this night, Barnabas did not need him. But Magda, his common-law wife, sent him to the woods to gather herbs she needed for a tincture she was preparing. _If I ain't doing Mr. Barnabas' bidding, I'm doing Magda's_ , he thought as he went to the place in the woods where she told him the herbs grew like weeds. _A gypsy should be free, live free_ , he thought as he stooped to cut the herbs—hacking at them with the large hunting knife he carried secured in his gypsy sash.

Out of the night, he heard footfall—fast desperate feet running through the woods toward him. He shuffled behind a tree, and peeked out from behind it. He saw a woman running through the woods—raven haired in a dirty, ill-fitting dress—but it was … she looked like … she _was_ … Magda's sister, Jehna, or Jenny, as she preferred to be called. He was almost certain of it.

She had renounced her status as a gypsy, married an outsider, and all believed she had died as a result. _Perhaps she is a ghost, or worse, perhaps she is like Barnabas—undead_ , he thought. He dropped the knife and the herbs he'd been gathering, and he ran back toward the Old House. He ran faster than he thought possible. He arrived winded, muscles aching, and uncertain whether to say anything to Madga, or keep his wild imaginings to himself.

* * *

Dirk Wilkins, the groundskeeper for the Collinwood estate, stood in his stocking feet in the drawing room. His dirty boots stood outside in the foyer. He was angry. He hated the way Judith Collins had emasculated him in front of her brother and the governess. She had treated him like a mere servant—or worse. He always believed, or perhaps wanted to believe, that he was more than that to her. He always believed she trusted him, relied on him, in a way she didn't the other servants—even Beth. But now tonight, she humbled him—humiliated him. He'd not soon forget it. For now, he'd have to bide his time, until he could make her pay. In the meantime, he'd have to assume the role of the subservient—at least until he had something more to leverage.

"Well?" Judith asked, imperious again.

It made him want to humble her in return. An old sense of grievance swelled in his chest. But he tamped it down, and said "She escaped into the woods this evening. She rushed the door when Beth arrived with her dinner—knocked her to floor and ran. If I hadn't been close by, who knows how far she would gotten."

"Is she alright?" Judith asked.

"Beth?"

Judith nodded.

"Yes, she's fine. A little shaken up is all. She helped me chase Jenny down and bring her back."

"Did anyone else see her?"

"I don't think so—I didn't see anyone. Miss Collins, I hope you won't mind my saying so, but I think we're going to need different arrangements."

"Yes, I can see that now." Judith stood and faced him. "I think the time has come to have her committed some place far away from Collinwood. It will take some time to arrange. I'll have to talk with Evan Handley about the appropriate paperwork. In the meantime, I want you to go with Beth every time— _anytime_ she goes down there. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course."

"I don't want anything like this to happen again."

* * *

Returning to the foyer of the Great House, Quentin wished Rachel goodnight with a roguish smile and a formal bow.

"Good night Mr. Collins," she returned formally. She wore a worried expression as she headed upstairs toward her room.

Quentin turned toward the drawing room in search of a nightcap. But as he approached he heard voices within. He saw the boots still outside the drawing room door. Judith and Wilkins were still talking. _They have plenty to say to one another_ , Quentin mused silently. Then he knocked, but barely waited for a response. Dirk stood in front of the fireplace waiting like a loyal dog in need of its master's touch. Judith sat at the small writing desk, sealing a note or letter in an envelope. To Dirk, she said, "Take this to Evan Handley, and wait for his response."

Quentin strode fully into the room. "Poor Evan. He won't be pleased to receive your missive so late in the evening, Judith."

"Really Quentin, it's no concern of yours. Dirk." She stood, held out the letter, and waited for the groundskeeper to make his way to her to retrieve it. He gave her a submissive nod, but shot Quentin a contemptuous look as he departed.

"My dear Judith, why do you tolerate that preening, jumped-up toady?" Quentin asked as soon as Wilkins was out of earshot.

"That's my affair, Quentin," was her haughty reply.

"I gave you credit for better taste than that, dear sister," Quentin said, punctuated by an expansive laugh.

Judith's initial blush expanded into a furious red. "Really Quentin, must you be so vulgar?"

"My apologies, Judith. I've come to finish my nightcap. May I pour you one?"

"Yes, and then take yours and leave. I want to be alone."

* * *

The events of the previous night caused Quentin to rethink his plans for the day. His original plan had been to lurk about the corridors, watching for Beth to take a breakfast tray to the Collinwood mystery guest and then follow her. If caught, he planned to force Beth to take him to the visitor's room and reveal his identity. But now, Quentin suspected that his old friend Evan Handley had a hand in this as well. He decided to pay his old friend a visit and find out what he knew.

Evan Handley was the Collins family attorney. He'd handled matters big and small for both the family and its businesses for many years. Quentin had naturally gravitated toward Evan. He had many qualities that Quentin admired. He had traveled and knew something of the world beyond Collinsport, though he was now settled there. He was funny, provocative, and profane. The latter of these traits he took to the extreme by dabbling in the black arts. He'd brought back from his travels books, small artifacts, and other souvenirs of the magical and mystical arts from the other cultures he'd visited. While he didn't share these interests with many other Collinsport residents, and certainly not with other members of the Collins family, in Quentin he'd found a kindred spirit—or at least in a shared belief in the supernatural.

It was not yet ten o'clock the next morning when Quentin arrived at Evan's door. He knocked and waited impatiently. He feared that he might have already missed him. Of course, if Evan were heading to Collinwood, surely Quentin would have passed him on the way. He knocked again, louder this time. In a moment, Evan was at door—his shirt and vest on, but his tie as yet untied.

"Quentin," he greeted his friend, "Rather early for you, isn't it?" The younger man's reputation for keeping late nights and even later mornings preceded him everywhere. Evan opened the door wide to allow Quentin admittance.

"Good morning Evan. I was hoping to catch you before your day gets underway. Do you have a few minutes?"

Evan pulled his watch out of the watch pocket and consulted it. "Just a few, but I'm heading to Collinwood, perhaps we can speak on the way."

"I'd rather speak here if you don't mind, Evan," Quentin told him.

Evan sighed and allowed his impatience to show. "Fine, but we'll have to keep it brief."

"Of course, we wouldn't want you to be late for your command performance for Judith."

"Quentin..." Evan began, but Quentin cut him short.

"What's going on, Evan?" Quentin demanded.

"Quentin, I'm Judith's attorney."

"You're the _family_ attorney."

"At the moment, that's the same thing," Evan said flatly.

"I thought we were friends."

"We are, my dear boy," was Evan's patronizing response.

"I am _not_ your dear _boy_. You know, don't you?"

"Know what?" Evan feigned ignorance.

"You know who's been living at Collinwood—who Judith and Beth are spiriting from one part of the house to another to avoid me." Quentin's voice rose with his anger. "Did you know he tried to _kill_ me?" The color drained from Evan's face. "No, I can see that you didn't know."

"Quentin, what happened? Are you alright?"

"Do you care?" Quentin spat out. "He snuck into my room in the middle of the night and set fire to my canopy curtains. If … if I hadn't woken up when I smelled the smoke, I'd be dead now."

"I'm sorry, my boy."

"Would you please stop calling me that?"

"Let me look into this for you."

"So you do know something?"

"No, but I'll look into it. I promise. And I'll let you know what I find out."

"How? When?"

"I'll speak to Judith. She trusts me."

"Yes, I know," Quentin drawled.

"But if she doesn't confide in me, we can use one of the divining methods I learned abroad." Quentin looked skeptical, but his overall demeanor relaxed. "So will you wait, and accompany me to Collinwood?" Evan asked.

"Sure, why not?" Quentin said, and took a seat in the parlor to await his friend's return.

* * *

Rachel's day began with an unusual turn of events. During morning lessons, Beth entered the schoolroom and announced that Miss Collins wanted to see the governess in the drawing room at once.

"I'll stay with Nora and Jamison until you return," Beth said with a vaguely triumphant toss of her head.

All the way down the long corridor from the room that served as a schoolroom, to the landing of the stairs, Rachel tried to imagine her life if she were let go from her position as governess—especially without a letter of reference. Where could she go? What could she do? Except return to Worthington Hall—and she vowed she'd never do that. She feared that Judith was displeased about her taking a walk with Quentin the previous evening. Why had she been so bold as to ask him to escort her, right there in front of Judith? Why was she willing to risk what was so dear to her in order to help him? After all, she was in no immediate danger from whoever it was who was hidden, first in the tower room, and now in the basement of the Great House. Yet, it upset her that Quentin was, and would be as long as the identity and motives of that person remained a secret.

She paused for a moment at the top of the stairs and drew a deep breath; her hand was already poised on the banister. She had no other choice but to face Judith Collins.

Entering the drawing room, she found Judith at her desk. "Ah, Rachel. Come in and close the doors." Rachel did as she was instructed and then stood awaiting her fate. Judith finished the notations she was making in her household ledger and then turned to Rachel. "How long have you been with us, Rachel?"

"Several months, Miss Collins."

"And in those several months, you've scarcely left the estate."

"Yes, ma'am," Rachel responded her eyes downcast. "As you know, I'm an orphan, so there's no one with claims on my time, or expectations of seeing me."

"Yes, but not even a trip into town? I find myself in desperate need of a change of scenery, and I'd like to visit the milliner this afternoon. I was wondering whether you'd care to accompany me."

"But I can't leave Nora and Jamison," was Rachel's immediate reaction.

"I think Beth can look after them for an afternoon. Collinsport doesn't have a lot to offer like Boston, or even Bangor, but you might find something in one of the shops to spend your hard-earned wages on."

Rachel considered for a moment. Once again, Judith Collins had taken her by surprise. "It would be nice to look for a new blouse and maybe a shawl."

"It's all settled then. Please send Beth to me. I'll have her meet you in the small dining room when the children are having their lunch."

* * *

Later that afternoon, they sat in the Collinsport Tea Shoppe. It was, according to Judith, the only decent place in town for two ladies to take an afternoon repast. There was, of course, the dining room of the Inn, which though good in the evening, had little to offer this time of day. And too, there was the Blue Whale—a place well below Judith's dignity.

So here they sat in the only place Judith deemed appropriate, sharing a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches and cookies. The very model of old world civility—or so Rachel thought.

They ate in companionable silence for a few moments, enjoying the repast after the ride into town and the subsequent shopping. At length Judith began, "I want to speak to you about my brother, _Quentin_ ," she added for clarity. She went on, "Not as your employer, but as his sister, and woman to woman. He seems quite taken with you, and you are the very type of woman who could change him for the better. But I'm afraid that would be one-sided. In my heart, I know he doesn't mean to do it, but Quentin just seems to leave a trail of destruction and disappointment in his wake." She took a sip of tea.

Rachel pretended to be absorbed with a sandwich, while she waited for Judith to continue.

"I'm sure you've noticed that Edward and I are significantly older that our younger brothers. As a result, I believe that Quentin and Carl grew up without having the same sense of purpose and discipline as Edward and me. Edward always knew the family businesses would fall to him to run, and he took that very seriously. He learned the trade inside and out. It's given his life structure and meaning, as have Nora and Jamison. And for me, I knew that managing the Great House and the estate would be my responsibility. But for Carl and Quentin, it was different. Perhaps because the clear and important roles were filled long before they were old enough to aspire to them. In truth, they could have joined the business, but Edward fills that role completely, and in order to work with him, you'd have to do things his way. Quentin could never do that, and Carl—well, he just doesn't have the temperament for anything serious."

Here Judith paused, took another sip of tea, and then concluded, "Rachel, I don't know why I'm telling you all of this, but I felt it must be said. I'm certainly not accusing you of anything. I noticed that you and Quentin returned very quickly last night. It's just that, well, Quentin finds it nearly impossible to resist a beautiful woman."

Now Rachel felt compelled to interrupt her, "Miss Collins, I want you to know that my feelings for your brother are strictly _platonic_. He's been kind to me—nothing more. And though I appreciate the kindness, I do not look at him with any other feelings than ones of friendship. Frankly, I believe that's mutual," she concluded.

"I'm so relieved to hear it, because the children have blossomed under your tutelage. And I've come to think of you as a member of the family. I would never want Quentin's influence to interfere with that." Then she turned the conversation to complimenting their meal and the purchases of earlier in the day. Rachel considered herself duly, and all things considered, gently warned.

* * *

Quentin had waited through the morning and into the afternoon for Evan to come by his apartment following the attorney's confab with his sister. But when the clock chimed three o'clock, he knew that Evan had come and gone without keeping their agreed upon rendezvous. At best, Evan had failed him; more likely, his friend had betrayed him—or so went the monologue in Quentin's mind.

By late afternoon, fortified by a stiff brandy, he knew how it must be. He tucked his pistol into the inside pocket of his jacket and headed out the door. He took the back stairs to the corridor that led toward the kitchen and beyond it to the basement.

As a member of the family, he could go wherever he wanted with impunity, but not being detected was crucial to his plan, such as it was. He only needed to get past the kitchen and into the basement corridor without being seen. Then he planned to wait at the end of the corridor amongst the chairs, wardrobes, and chests of drawers, until Beth returned. Surely whoever it was who occupied one of the basement rooms would be expecting an evening meal. And he would be ready.

He would not be deterred by boredom or hunger. He would wait until the door opened and he would gain access, even if he had to obstruct it with his foot—he would not be deterred.

And so he waited. The wan afternoon light dimmed with the setting sun. The corridor was quite dark. Still he waited. For the most part, he heard only muffled noises. From his hiding place, it was impossible to be sure from which room they came, or even if they were human noises, or some other form of life that made its home in the dank basement. He found a battered armchair draped in white sheeting to protect it from the elements. He threw off the sheeting and dropped into the chair. Then he waited.

Quentin's mind drifted back to the times when he and Carl played there as children. Carl, the trickster, ever ready to try to frighten Quentin. Once, Carl had snuck down earlier in the day, hung an effigy dressed in Quentin's clothes, and then waited for Quentin to discover it. He'd been delighted when Quentin screamed in terror; he'd laughed until tears streamed from his eyes. Then Quentin had tackled him, knocking him to the ground, and pummeling him, until Edward heard them and intervened. Their grandmother, Edith, had sent them both to bed without supper. Even now, the memory made Quentin angry with his feckless brother. For all that, there were times when he missed Carl, though he couldn't count on him for anything important.

Quentin wondered who all knew the secret. Clearly Beth and Judith did, as well as Evan and Wilkins … and Edward, of course. Perhaps even Carl knew. Was he a party to it too? Perhaps Judith had sent him away—to ensure that he didn't suddenly blurt it out in true Carl fashion.

Now an idea began to take shape in his mind. Perhaps his grandmother, Edith, wasn't dead after all. Perhaps Judith, tired of waiting for their grandmother to die so that she could be mistress of Collinwood, had faked Edith's death and now kept her sequestered against her will. As to faking the burial, Quentin felt sure that Evan could easily arrange such a thing. Rachel had heard maniacal laughter the night of the fire. That did seem like dear grandmama. But if it were his grandmother, why would she set fire to his curtains. Edith had always loved Quentin in spite of herself.

He shook his head as though to clear it of these absurd thoughts. Waiting for so long with little else to occupy him created a fertile breeding ground for disturbing trains of thought.

The sound of voices recalled him to the present. This time he was ready.

One voice was Beth. "… in a strange mood," she was saying.

Then came another voice. It was Wilkins. "Look, I don't care what kind of mood she's in. Let's just give her the food, and lock up for the night."

 _So it is a woman_ , Quentin thought as he quietly stood, and carefully made his way toward the voices.

"She's just scared and lonely," Beth spoke again.

"And completely insane and dangerous," Dirk responded.

"At least let me stay until she's done with dinner," Beth pleaded.

"Miss Collins said you're not to be alone with her again," he said forcefully. Then he added more gently, "Beth, it's just too dangerous. I'm sorry. I know you care, but …"

Quentin heard the sound of keys jingling, finding the lock. He moved rapidly in pursuit. Dirk turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

"We brought your dinner," Beth chirped with forced cheerfulness.

Dirk went in first. Beth was behind him with the tray.

"No! Get away from me. I don't like you!" the woman shrieked.

Quentin recognized the voice instantly and pushed his way in the door just behind Beth and Dirk. He arrived just in time to see a glint of metal as she raised the knife in her hand.


	6. Chapter 6

Darkness falls on the Great House at Collinwood, and this night will forever change the future of its inhabitants. On this night, deep in the lower reaches of the house, a quartet of players fill the roles fate has destined them to play—with tragic consequences for all involved.

Collinwood 1897

For well over a year, Quentin believed that Jenny was dead— _his wife_ , Jenny. He had married Jenny in a blur of passion that began one night at the Blue Whale. He was returning to Collinwood from a trip to Boston. He stopped in at the Blue Whale to get sufficiently lubricated for his return. She was waiting tables. He noticed her at once—a mass of auburn locks, skin kissed by the sun. At first, she seemed to bestow her smiles on every table she served. But as the evening wore on, she spent more and more time at his table—bestowing her smiles on him alone.

Jenny sang as she waited tables. She told Quentin that she always wanted to be a singer. That night, she ended the evening by sharing a drink with him. He was besotted.

Thus began their courtship, though Quentin would not call it that. He spent every evening at the Blue Whale, basking in her smiles, and tunes, and running up an enormous tab for all the drinks he ordered in order to stay in her orbit.

One night he stayed until the Blue Whale closed and offered to walk her home. She told him then and there that she wasn't interested in a man to walk her home. She wanted nothing short of marriage. He knew it was too soon, but he wanted her—heaven help him, he wanted her. So he agreed to an elopement. They would travel to Massachusetts, and find a justice of the peace to marry them then return to Collinwood as husband and wife.

Even then he knew that Jenny was excitable and volatile. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered—not reason or suitability or compatibility—he'd fallen hard under her spell. All that mattered was having Jenny for his own.

* * *

Jenny raised the hunting knife and slashed at Dirk. His arm went up in a defensive gesture, but too late. He cried out in pain and tumbled to his back.

Everything seemed to happen at once. Quentin pulled Beth back by the shoulders, "Beth!" The tray fell from Beth's hands, clattering to the floor, and scattering its contents.

Quentin came face-to-face with his wife—his _dead_ wife—alive and in the flesh. He stepped in front of Beth, shielding her with his body. "You love her," his wife shrieked, madness in her eyes, "you love _her."_

"No Jenny. I love only you," Quentin told her in a soothing voice.

Dirk writhed on the floor. Blood saturated the sleeve of his jacket, as he cradled his injured arm in the other. He moaned.

Quentin stepped up to face Jenny. "You love her," Jenny said in a softer voice.

"No Jenny. I love only you," Quentin continued to soothe her. "Now give me the knife," he reached out to her. "Let's talk things over." For a moment, it seemed as though it would work. She would hand over the knife and be subdued.

Instead Jenny's volatility won out. Madness flashed again in her eyes. "You love her. I've seen you together." She lunged at Quentin with the knife. He grabbed her wrist preventing her from stabbing him. She had always been a tall, strong woman. It was one of the things he'd admired about her. But now, fueled by madness, she used her strength to resist him. They struggled for possession of the knife. Quentin tried to use his height and strength to leverage it from her hands. But she held tight. At last he gained an advantage—his hands encircled hers.

He would never know exactly what happened—had she slipped? Did she surrender herself to him? All he knew for certain was that she rocked backward taking him and the knife with her. He felt the warm, sticky ooze of blood beneath him. As he disengaged, he saw the knife firmly planted in her chest. Blood oozed from her lips as well. Her mad eyes went blank. He knew Jenny was dead.

It seemed to Quentin that the world went silent. The only sounds he heard were the pulsing of his blood and the pounding of his own heart. It blotted out all other sounds. The coppery, metallic smell of blood permeated his nostrils, and Jenny's dead eyes swam before him. _I killed her_ , he thought. Perhaps he even said it aloud. He couldn't be sure.

It was Dirk Wilkins who broke through. He moaned loudly. "There's nothing you can do for her, but I need help," his voice was high-pitched and urgent.

Beth took charge, "I'll go and get Miss Judith. She'll know what to do."

Quentin had forgotten they were in the room. He couldn't take his eyes from Jenny's lifeless body. It seemed impossible that an hour ago he didn't even know she was alive. Now, she was dead—by his hand. _I never meant for this to happen, Jenny—none of it_ , he thought as the reality set in.

* * *

Beth knocked loudly and urgently on the drawing room door. She was invited to enter by Judith Collins, and found her sitting with her cousin Barnabas, who was paying one of his evening visits.

Beth's face was pale and she wore her upset on her sleeve. Struggling for composure, she began, "Miss Collins." Her eyes fell on Barnabas, who stood when she entered the room. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I need to see you urgently."

"What is it, Beth?" Judith asked with equal parts concern and irritation.

"May I speak to you privately?"

"I will leave you now," Barnabas said politely, though his curiosity was pricked.

"No, please." Judith welcomed his company. "I hope this won't take but a minute," she said as she moved to follow Beth into the foyer. Once there, she closed the doors, and asked with now obvious impatience, "well, what is it? What's so urgent?"

"It's Dirk. He's been badly hurt," Beth responded frantically. "Please come."

"Dirk? Of course, I'll come" Judith responded without giving her guest a second thought.

Judith followed Beth's retreating figure first to the corridor to the servant's quarters, then to the stairs leading to the basement. It was dark now, but the faint glow of lantern light illuminated their way. In a moment they were at the door to the cell that had housed their unwilling guest.

Judith took in the tableau before her. Dirk was writhing in pain. He held his arm, but blood still seeped freely through his fingers. Quentin kneeled perfectly still over Jenny's lifeless body. Her eyes fixed with a mad stare. "Beth, go to the kitchen and bring something that will serve as a tourniquet and whatever clean towels you can find."

"But …" Beth began.

Judith said decisively, "Go now, and then call Dr. Woodard. Tell him to come at once." Judith went to Dirk, who by now was insensible with pain and loss of blood. As she removed his jacket, he moaned deep guttural noises. His shirtsleeve was saturated in blood. Judith swallowed deeply; then using the knife-hole ripped the sleeve open to expose the wound. She sighed, regretting the fate of her beautiful green dress; she took its hem and pressed it to the wound to staunch the bleeding.

Beth returned with a tie that she hastily cut from an apron. "I called Dr. Woodard," she said as she handed it to Judith. "He's on his way."

"I need your help," Judith said. "Bring that towel, and hold it here, while I put on the tourniquet."

Beth did as she was told with a vague, unfocused look in her eyes. "What about Jenny?" she asked.

"There's nothing to be done for her now, but we need to get Dirk upstairs to wait for the doctor. Then we can decide what to do next." Thinking aloud she added, "I wish Edward were here. He'd know what to do," as she applied the tourniquet tightly above his elbow.

"Perhaps I can help instead," came Barnabas's voice from the doorway.

"Cousin Barnabas, I'm sorry. I'd forgotten you were here."

"I can see why." He asked Dirk, "Do you feel strong enough to walk?"

"Yes, I think so," the groundskeeper responded weakly.

"Beth, take him upstairs to the study. Wait with him there until the doctor arrives," Barnabas said, as he helped Dirk to his feet.

Beth went to Dirk. He put his good arm around her shoulder. She supported him with one arm around his waist, as the other held the towel tightly against his wound. She helped him out the door.

Once they were gone, Barnabas said, "The real question is what to do about? …"

"Jenny," Judith supplied. "She's … she was Quentin's wife."

"I take it since we've not been introduced, her presence here is meant to be a secret." He shot a glance at Quentin, who was silent and still the entire time—his eyes never left the body of his dead wife.

"Until recently, we believed she'd thrown herself off of Widow's Hill," Judith began. It sounded disingenuous even to her own ears.

"Stop lying, Judith." Quentin spoke at last. "Tell the truth. She deserves that at least. Perhaps if you told me the truth she'd still be alive," he said harshly.

"Perhaps if you hadn't left her as you did, she'd still be alive," she responded in kind.

"There will be plenty of time for recriminations later," Barnabas intervened. "Right now what we— _you_ —need to think about are arrangements for her body."

"We must bury her in the woods," Judith said decisively.

"No," was Quentin's angry, emphatic response. "She'll be buried in the cemetery, and have a headstone that bears her name, like every other Collins." At last, he pulled himself away from her lifeless body. He stood and faced Judith and Barnabas. His face was pale, but there was fire in his eyes. He would brook no opposition.

Judith looked resigned. "Fine, but it must be done quickly and quietly. I don't want word of this getting out—not even to the other servants."

"I can help with that. I'll bring Sandor to help you."

"Can you trust him?" Judith asked.

"As much as you've trusted Dirk and Beth," Barnabas replied. Then to Quentin, he asked gently, "What happened?"

"I killed her," Quentin said, as tears flooded his eyes. "Heaven help me—I _killed_ her." When neither Judith nor Barnabas spoke, he pressed his hands to his eyes, and went on, "She had a knife. She'd gone mad. She was no longer Jenny. She was a madwoman. I tried to take the knife from her," his voice broke. "But she fought me for it. I … I didn't mean to do it. It was an accident … I never meant for it to happen." He sobbed again.

Judith went to comfort him. She took his hands in hers. "I believe you're capable of many things Quentin, but not killing Jenny in cold blood." Then she turned to Barnabas, "How soon can Sandor get here?"

"I'll leave at once, and return with him. There are some materials in the basement of the old house that he can use to build a coffin. We'll bring them when we come back. In the meantime, is there something you can use to cover her?"

"There are tarps covering the old furniture, just outside at the end of the corridor," Quentin said. "I'll get one." He left the room.

Barnabas turned to Judith, "Will you two be alright while I'm gone?"

"Yes, we will."

"Good. Take him upstairs to the drawing room. Give him some brandy, and keep him there. When I return with Sandor, we'll come directly here, and take care of the body. Perhaps we can temporarily leave her in the mausoleum."

Judith nodded. In her mind, she wondered how he would accomplish all of this, but she didn't argue or question her cousin. She just accepted his much-needed help.

* * *

Quentin alternated between drinking silently in front of the fireplace, and pacing the floor of the drawing room from one end to the other. Judith sat impassively on the couch sipping a brandy as though it was any other evening at Collinwood—except that her hair was in disarray and her dress was soiled with blood and dirt.

Dr. Woodard had come and gone. He had stopped by the drawing room to tell Judith that he had stitched Dirk's arm and that the young man would recover. Of course, he would need rest to recover from the loss of blood, but he was lucky. Judith had done the right thing by applying the tourniquet as she had. Judith had seen Dr. Woodard to the door, assuring him that she would enjoin her staff to be more careful to avoid such "accidents" in the future. _Insufferable man_ , Judith thought as she finally shut the door behind him. Now she and Quentin were left to await Barnabas's return.

At length, Quentin said, "What's taking so long?"

"Try to relax, Quentin," was Judith's ineffectual response.

"Relax? Judith, I just _killed_ someone—not someone—my wife— _Jenny_."

"I know," she said soberly. "But we need to keep our heads. We need to bury her, and you need to put this chapter of your life behind you."

"How can I? I didn't even know she was still alive until a few hours ago." He faced her and added calmly, "You should have told me."

"Perhaps, but we were already committed to this course of action when you returned."

"We?"

"Grandmamma, Edward, and me," she clarified. "She started going mad not long after you left. We didn't know what to do. She was fixated on you and Laura. At first, we just wanted to keep her away from Jamison and Nora. They were so confused as it was."

"She's been living as a prisoner all this time?" he asked.

"You saw her. She was dangerous. What else could we do?"

"You could have gotten her the help she needed."

"What? In an asylum? Never. She might not have been a Collins by birth, but she still bore our name."

"And heaven forbid a Collins should be institutionalized."

"We did what we thought best. And yes, maybe things would have been different if you were here, but you weren't. She was devastated, and we did what we could to keep her safe." Judith stopped short. For a moment, she wanted to tell him everything. For a moment, she wanted to forge a brother-sister bond with him that the lies and half-truths made impossible. He would understand their motives then. But the moment passed, they had come this far, and she felt she must keep faith with the decisions she, Edith, and Edward had made together.

Quentin went to the liquor cabinet to refill his glass. He turned, held up the decanter, silently offering Judith a refill. She nodded, and he went to her and poured another two fingers in her snifter.

"Sometimes I don't know what to think, Judith. Heaven knows I've made more than my share of mistakes—marrying Jenny, mistaking our passion for love. Following Laura—to this day I don't understand why I did that. I hope you never experience the kind of regret that I do, Judith."

He returned like a sentry to his post by the fireplace. They drank in silence, and waited for news from Barnabas.

* * *

Barnabas's mind reached out to Sandor even before he'd left the Great House, calling the servant to its vampire-master. Barnabas met his servant—his blood-slave—in the woods that separated the two houses on the estate.

Without sparing time for greetings, Barnabas began, "Go back to the Old House basement where I keep the materials for building makeshift coffins. Do you know where I mean?"

"Aye," Sandor replied with a bewildered expression.

"Load the cart and bring them to the Great House. I need you to build a coffin."

"For you? You moving to the Great House?" was the servant's dim response.

"Of course not. There's been an accident."

"What kind of accident?"

"A _fatal_ accident. Now stop questioning me and do as you're told. Bring the horse-cart—time is of the essence. There's much to do before dawn."

"Don't like horses," Sandor told him.

"What?" Barnabas was incredulous and frustrated at this point.

"Magda do drive the horse, Mr. Barnabas," the gypsy replied through slow, thick lips.

"Fine. Have Magda drive you, but come quickly. Do you know the path that leads to the servant's entrance?"

"Yeah, 'course."

"Meet me there as quick as you can."

* * *

When the horse-cart finally arrived at the appointed place, it was Magda driving it. Sandor rode in the back with the supplies. The coffin would be of inexpensive pine; it would be permanently sealed with planks of wood over the top—no hinges would be needed. It would not be fancy, but it would be serviceable, especially under the circumstances.

Barnabas's plan called for Sandor to hastily construct the coffin. They would put Jenny in the coffin and store it in the mausoleum until the next day, when Judith would arrange for a quick and private burial. One of the advantages of being a Collins in _Collins_ port was the ability to have one's own way. It seemed to Barnabas that his cousin Judith was no stranger to this truism.

Barnabas realized that it would be useful to have another set of hands, so he welcomed Magda's arrival. Between the three of them, they could manage removal of the body without resorting to involving the clearly fragile Quentin. He would soon realize how wrong he was.

The room—cell really—where Jenny had been kept was quite soundproof. They assembled the coffin there in complete privacy. Once the bottom was done, Barnabas planned to line the coffin with the tarp that was draped over her, and then fold the sides over the body. But things went terribly wrong.

"Who is it?" Magda asked as Sandor drove the final nails into the coffin.

"Quentin's wife," Barnabas said gravely. "It was a terrible accident."

"Woman who marries him is both lucky and cursed, eh?" Magda retorted glibly.

"I believe she was cursed," Barnabas said as he removed the tarp. He took the tarp to the makeshift coffin, and laid it across the bottom, allowing it to drape over the sides of the wooden box.

"Help me move her," he ordered.

Magda and Sandor turned toward the body for the first time. No one had bothered to remove the knife. It still protruded from her chest. Blood dried and congealed all around it. Magda cried out in a way that made even Barnabas go cold.

"I'm sorry Magda. I should have …" he began.

But Magda rushed to the body, "Jehna! Jehna! What have they done to you?"

"You know her?" Barnabas asked as Sandor rushed to his wife's side.

"She's Magda's sister, Jehna."

"Jenny is Magda's sister?" Barnabas repeated.

"Aye. She left her people, and went in search of a different life. I guess she found it, eh?" Sandor returned bitterly.

All the while, Magda kneeled beside the body of her dead sister, repeating her name.

To Sandor, Barnabas said, "We must take her now, as I planned. We must finish here."

It was Magda who responded. Rising to her feet, she turned to Barnabas and Sandor. "We ain't taking her nowhere. Not until I know what happened to her—who did this."

"As I said Magda, it was an accident," Barnabas told her forcefully.

"And did you see this so-called _accident_?" She challenged Barnabas. "Did _you_?" she asked Sandor. When silence greeted her, she added, "Eh, that's what I thought. Where are they? The high and mighty Collins family who would bury my Jehna, like a dog in the woods."

"Quentin insisted she be buried properly in the family cemetery," Barnabas said in defense of his maligned family.

"Better she be buried like a dog than among them who never cared about her. We will take her—her family—Sandor and me. We will see that she is buried like a gypsy." Here she paused, and drew herself together. Strength fueled by anger shone in her eyes. "But not until I find out what happened to her—who killed her—and why?"

She pushed past Barnabas and Sandor, stumbling in the dim light until she found the stairs to the upper level of the Great House. She knew the way from there, as she had read the cards for Edith Collins many times, and received as payment a meal served in the kitchen. It was a wonder that she had never encountered Jehna. She wished she had—perhaps if she had, Jehna would still be alive.

* * *

Judith and Quentin were still awaiting word from Barnabas when the drawing room doors were thrown open. Magda, Barnabas's gypsy servant, strode in as if she owned the place.

Judith sprang to her feet, "What are you doing here? Did Barnabas send you?"

"I am free, I am a gypsy," Magda spat out. "No one sends me. I come and go as I please."

"Are you …" Judith began, but Magda cut her off.

"I want to know what happened to her." Her voice was loud.

"To whom?" was Judith dignified response.

"To Jehna, my sister." She added with undisguised revulsion, "Or _Jenny_ , as you called her."

"Jenny—your sister? I knew she wasn't …"

Now it was Quentin's turn to intercede. "Jenny was your sister? We didn't know that she …"

"Was a gypsy? Yes, she renounced her name and family to live like you. And look what it got her, eh? Nothing but death. My poor dead Jehna," she wailed.

Barnabas appeared in the doorway and closed the doors behind him to muffle Magda's wailing. "So, she told you," he said to Quentin and Judith.

"Yes." Quentin looked as though his own sanity was at risk.

Then to Magda, Barnabas said, "We must finish her burial preparations."

"No! She will be buried according to our customs," Magda returned. To Judith she said, "You must gather all of her possessions and give them to me." And then to Quentin and Barnabas, "You must put her body in the coffin, for Sandor and I must not touch her now. We will take her to the Old House tonight, and bury her at sundown tomorrow, when Mr. Barnabas returns from _Bangor_."

"Must you go to Bangor tomorrow?" Judith asked. "I was counting on you to help us get through this."

Barnabas shot Magda a pointed look, but she only sneered back at him in response. "I'm afraid I must, Judith, but as Magda says, I'll be back at sundown for the funeral. For now I suggest allowing Magda and Sandor to grieve according to their customs."

"Yes," said Magda. "But when the grieving is done, we will talk about what happened to my Jehna, and who will pay."


	7. Chapter 7

At the Great House at Collinwood, the distant rumble of the surf and the gradually burnished horizon herald sunrise and the start of a new day. For one woman, the new day brings another opportunity to solve a mystery that plagues her. Maggie Evans is determined to identify the mysterious man who haunts her dreams, and even appears in her waking hours.

She had hoped that a hypnotic trance would bring to the surface her connection to the handsome stranger. Instead, a new layer of the mystery unfolded. She knew now that he was tied to Collinwood. Specifically, her trance led her to the west wing of the house, which now was locked and inaccessible to members of the household. She felt certain that the answers she sought lay behind that locked door.

Perhaps she should have confided in Julia Hoffman. Julia was smart and logical. She could be a formidable partner in unraveling the mystery. She didn't understand why she lied to the doctor. Something held her back from disclosing what she discovered while under hypnosis. _Why_? The question lingered in her mind.

She had lain awake half the night thinking about the pieces of this puzzle. She was confused, and nothing seemed to bring things into focus. What led her to him in the west wing? Why did he look so bereft? And what did any of it have to do with _her_? She needed answers. And the only way she could think of to find the answers she needed was to go to the west wing—to find the room where she saw him in her hypnotic state. But how? She needed a plan.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

An eventful night at the Great House at Collinwood has given way to another day—a day that promises more fateful change.

Beth arrived at the Old House carrying a carpet valise containing Jenny's possessions. At length, Magda answered her knock. As usual, she was dressed in a colorful combination—a loose fitting lavender blouse, tucked into a maroon tiered skirt, topped by an amber brocade vest. As usual, she wore a dizzying array of necklaces and bangles; a single, silver hoop hung from her right ear. It seemed apparent to Beth that the rituals of mourning were very different for Magda and her people.

In contrast, Beth wore more traditional clothes of mourning—a black dress with white cuffs and collar that she wore when Edith Collins died not long ago.

Magda said nothing. She gestured for Beth to follow her into the drawing room. To Beth's eyes, Magda had aged overnight. She moved in a slow, loping step that Beth had not observed in her before.

The coffin was there in the drawing room. There were planks of wood ready to serve as a cover, but not yet nailed in place.

The gypsy turned to the younger blond woman, and asked, "Is that all?"

"Yes. I packed them myself. I'm so sorry Magda." Beth began to cry softly. Magda said nothing but held Beth in a cold stare. Beth wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. "I really cared about Jenny. She's been well taken care of. I saw to that myself."

At last, Magda said, "Yes—locked away like an animal. She should have been cared for by her own people."

"We didn't know. She never told us, so we did the best we could."

"Give me her things," Magda demanded angrily. Beth handed her the valise. Magda opened it and began rifling through her sister's things—a few dresses, a hair brush, a shawl, and a doll. Magda removed the doll and examined it. "This was Jehna's?" she asked.

"Yes. She loved that doll. I thought you'd want to have it."

"And which was her favorite dress?" Magda asked.

Beth took a deep green dress from the valise, "This one. It set off her hair color perfectly."

"Good. Then you must put it on her," Magda said.

"What?" came Beth's shocked response.

"It is our custom. Sandor and I cannot touch her now. Someone else must ready her for burial. I would appreciate your help, Beth, as you cared for her. And I will show you a trick."

Magda patiently showed Beth how to remove the dress that her sister wore at the time of her death. Then she cut the green dress open down the back. "Now you can put it on her and tuck the rest around her. No one will ever know, eh?" Then recollecting the situation, she added, "No one will even see her." Tears came to Magda's eyes. "Sandor?" she bellowed. "Sandor!"

Her husband came upstairs and into the drawing room.

"It is time." Magda took the doll and placed it in the coffin beside her sister—careful not to touch the body. "Goodbye, Jehna." Then she turned to Sandor, "Close it," she told him. "Close it!" she added emphatically.

Sandor pulled one plank of wood next to the coffin and lifted it on top. He nailed it in place, and then repeated this with two more planks. When he was done, Jenny would be seen no more.

"Thank you Beth," Magda said. "She deserved better, eh? But I thank you for this service."

* * *

In the year 1795, Barnabas Collins was a man with a promising future before him. He was the scion of a prominent and wealthy family, respected by others as a man of substance, and engaged to the love of his life. From his perspective, one mistake changed the trajectory of his life. The moment he succumbed to his inexplicable attraction to his fiancé's maid, the dye was cast.

Perhaps it was that he put his fiancé, Josette, on a pedestal. She was his romantic ideal—delicate and innocent. She was skilled in the art of coquetry that was desired in women of standing at the time. By contrast, her maid, Angelique, was sensual and direct—and she wanted Barnabas. She made her desire clear to him; she was artless and plain about what she wanted. And in a moment of weakness, Barnabas had given into her charms. She was fair, where Josette was dark; she was bold, where Josette was demure. Barnabas had made love to her, in the mistaken impression that like others in her situation in life, she would welcome it, feel honored by the distinction, and then retreat into the background when Josette took her rightful place as his wife.

But Angelique, as Barnabas soon learned to his lifelong regret, was unlike other women and unlike other servants. She had both the will and the means to make both Barnabas, and the unsuspecting, innocent Josette, pay for his transgression. And pay he had, with a curse placed on him that played out over the centuries. He bore the curse of the undead, until his own father locked him away, for his own good and the good of those around him.

Barnabas remained locked in a coffin in a secret room in the Collins family mausoleum for nearly two centuries, until happenstance delivered him from his fate. He emerged in the year 1967. The world was different, but he was the same—and so was human nature. As much as he hated what Angelique turned him into, it was his ability to turn people into blood slaves that enabled him to live, indeed flourish, in a different era. And in 1968, he found a cure to the curse that Angelique placed on him. He lived as a man again, no longer subject to the bloodlust of being a vampire—no longer unable to walk in the daylight.

He was human again—at least until he threw the I Ching wands and walked through their portal to the past. When he emerged in 1897, he was Barnabas Collins the vampire again. He was Barnabas, preying on the unsuspecting of Collinsport again. He was Barnabas, once again relegated to walking the night, and never seeing the day.

* * *

If anyone found it odd that Jenny's burial took place after the sun set, no one said so. Quentin, Judith and Beth assumed it was another gypsy tradition, and the privacy it afforded them suited the Collins family anyway. The truth was, however, that it was the only time Barnabas could attend. His absence would have seemed odd given the role he played the previous evening. So instead, Sandor and by extension, Magda, had planned the service in the early evening.

Quentin, Judith, and Barnabas Collins, Beth, Sandor and Magda attended the burial. Sandor presided, saying a few words about his sister-in-law. All the while, Magda wailed. The gravediggers' silence and discretion was guaranteed by Collins money. Everyone returned to the Old House afterward, except Magda, who stayed at the gravesite until her sister's coffin was lowered into the ground, and the final shovel full of dirt was tossed on the grave. Even after the gravediggers took their shovels and returned to Collinsport, Magda stayed.

She kneeled at Jenny's graveside. "This I swear to you, Jehna, your death will be avenged. Whoever did this to you will pay, and pay dearly. This I promise you!"

* * *

At the Old House, Barnabas invited everyone to toast Jenny's life with a glass of sherry and a tray of sweet-cakes provided by Magda, though she had yet to appear. Sandor declined, opting to await his wife's return instead in the foyer. The others gathered in the drawing room of the Old House, and Barnabas did the honors, as a host should.

"I didn't know her, so perhaps, Quentin, you'd like to say a few words," Barnabas said to the younger man.

"What is there to say cousin Barnabas? She was my wife, and I didn't even know she was alive until yesterday and now …" he turned away and choked back tears. "Now she's dead, and by my hand," he whispered.

"I wish Edward were here," Judith said. "He should be here."

"Why?" Quentin turned back to face her and the others. "He hated her. You both did."

"This isn't the time for strife," Barnabas interjected.

"Maybe not in your branch of the family, cousin, but ours is always poised for strife. Isn't that right Judith?" Quentin said bitterly.

"Quentin," Judith began, but was interrupted when the door opened and Magda blew in. Sandor followed in her wake.

"Eat, drink, and quarrel, even as my Jehna lies cold in her grave. I want to know who killed her," Magda demanded.

"I killed her," Quentin answered.

"Quentin!" Judith silenced him, gathering herself and turning to fully face the gypsy woman.

But it was Beth who spoke, "It was an accident. She had a knife …"

"Aye. It was Sandor's knife. How did she come to have Sandor's knife?" Magda asked.

"She escaped …" Beth quickly corrected herself, "She _ran_ into the woods. She must have found it then," Beth told her.

Sandor looked guiltily down at his feet, "Aye, I lost it in the woods."

"But it was _Quentin_ who wielded it," Magda asserted.

Beth spoke up, "She came at us with the knife, and when Quentin tried to reason with her, she … it was an accident. He didn't mean for it to happen."

"Didn't he? But now you two are free to …" Magda waved her hand, as a substitute for her unspoken implication.

"It isn't like that," was Beth's shrill response.

"No?" Magda shot back.

"I didn't even know she was alive until yesterday," Quentin said.

"Maybe not, but she left her family, her friends, her people to marry you. She was driven mad by you … all of you … and now she is dead, and by your hand. You freely admit it."

"And I'm sorry, Magda. I'm sorry. I'll carry this with me for the rest of my life." Then Quentin cried in earnest. He covered his eyes and turned away.

"It's time we returned to the Great House," Judith said, taking control of the situation. "We aren't accomplishing anything here." And then to Magda, she added, "You have your answers now. The most important of which, is that your sister's death was an accident." Placing her sherry glass back on the serving tray, she prepared to leave. Beth and Quentin silently followed suit.

"If you don't mind Judith, I'll escort you back," Barnabas said as he followed the group to the door to retrieve his coat and cane. "I think it best that Magda be allowed to mourn her sister privately."

* * *

When they were gone, Magda paced the drawing room of the Old House. Sandor stood mutely watching. At length she said, "They will pay for what they did to Jehna. _He_ will pay."

"Magda, you heard him. It was an accident."

"An _accident_?" she repeated incredulously. "An _accident_? He married her and left her. He left her among strangers who hated her. And now she is dead, by his own hand by his own admission." Magda laid out her case against Quentin.

Sandor shook his head, and looked soberly at his wife. "Jehna chose to leave her family … chose to leave her people … to _renounce_ her people … to live as one of _them_ , and died as one of _them_."

"What are you saying? That she doesn't deserve to be avenged? It is our way. I do it for me. I do it for our people to preserve our ways. And I do it for Jehna. Gypsy blood ran in her veins, and that you cannot renounce. She was one of us." Sandor sighed and shook his head again. "Are you saying you will not help me? Are you saying you will not help avenge my sister as is our custom?" Magda demanded.

"No. I will help you. It is my role as your husband. But," he paused to underline his point, "Jehna was not innocent in all of it. She would still be alive if she had chosen to stay with us—with her family—with her people."

"But you _will_ help me," she said ignoring his latter declaration. "That is all that matters. Jehna will be avenged. I will bring vengeance on him, and one that will reverberate through generation after generation of the Collins family. This I vow.

"Tomorrow I will gather the things I need. Then you must go to the Great House and bring him to me."

Sandor asked, "What makes you think he'll come back here after the way you carried on?"

"He'll come. Already his guilt gnaws at him. He'll come. He'll come seeking forgiveness. And he'll believe he's found it, but all he will find is vengeance."

* * *

In the morning, as soon as Barnabas returned to his coffin, Magda left the Old House in search of the plants she needed. Much of what she needed, she had in her supply of dried herbs and roots. But there were one or two things that would be better freshly picked—more potent. So she spent the early morning foraging in the woods between the Old House and the Great House.

When she returned to the Old House, she assembled all that she needed and began. She reconstituted the dried roots in some sherry. Then she worked the dried herbs together with the fresh ones in ancient-looking mortar and pestle. When she had ground them practically to a paste, she added the paste to the sherry. The final step was to heat it until only a small portion remained—a small but potent portion. As she did this final step, she murmured an incantation in her native tongue. She repeated it again and again, swaying back and forward as she did so. Gradually she slipped into a trance-like state. She was no longer aware of her surroundings.

It was Sandor's arrival that brought her back to the present, back to the task at hand. The liquid was now no more than a few tablespoons.

"Good," Magda said as her husband shook her back to her conscious mind. "You've come at just the right moment." She filtered and decanted the liquid into a small vial. "This is it," she told Sandor. "It doesn't look like much, eh? But it is _enough_. It is enough to ruin the great Collins family for generations to come. It is enough to make them suffer as my Jehna suffered at their hands."

Sandor knew better than to interrupt her, but when she stopped to draw breath, he asked, "Are you sure Magda? What's done cannot be undone."

"You go now to the Great House. You go and bring him here. Do it quickly before the sun sets. You may be in thrall to Barnabas, but I am not, and I do not want him interfering with my plans. We must be done by the time he wakes. Do you understand?" she asked harshly.

"Aye," was her husband's dispirited response.

* * *

Sandor had carried his unhappy affect with him to the Great House. He had muttered an oath under his breath as he waited outside for Beth to admit him into the foyer. The swear was equally intended for Quentin, whose reckless actions caused this mess, and at Magda, who picked and chose which parts of being a gypsy were important depending on the situation. Suddenly, with her sister dead, she wanted to fulfill the blood oath of vengeance. He wouldn't mind if Jehna had lived according to their customs, but she had not. So perhaps part of the oath he uttered under his breath was for Jehna. Perhaps he should have directed all of it there—for it all began when she decided she wanted to live among strangers, and that their ways were better than gypsy ways.

Now Sandor stood waiting to take a man to meet a terrible fate. Beth had opened the door to him, and asked him to wait in the foyer while she went in search of Quentin. He paced the length of the foyer three times before he heard voices from above. Then Beth descended the stairs; Quentin close behind her.

"Well gypsy, what do you want?" Quentin asked as he arrived at the foot of the stairs.

"Magda wants a word with you," Sandor answered as though each word cost him dearly.

"Does she indeed?" Quentin shot back.

"Aye. She wants to talk about Jehna, to settle things."

"Why didn't she come herself?" Quentin asked.

"She doesn't like to leave the Old House right now. She's still mourning, eh?"

Beth had lingered close by Quentin's side. "I'll go with you," she said taking hold of Quentin's arm.

"No. Just him," Sandor said. "Magda ain't got no business with you. It's him she wants to see."

Quentin removed Beth's hand from his arm. "I don't need minding, Beth." And then to Sandor, "Tell Madga I'll be there soon."

Sandor loped to the front door, and in a moment he was gone.

Beth turned to Quentin, "Let me come with you. She's angry and …"

Quentin cut her off, "She has a right to be angry. I killed her sister. I killed _Jenny_ , my wife."

"It was an accident," Beth said. "And we're all to blame."

"You don't seem to understand. I killed someone. Accident or not, she's dead because of me. The guilt burns my insides. When I closed my eyes last night, her dead lifeless eyes were the only thing I could see."

"Quentin, you have to forgive yourself," Beth implored him.

"Maybe. But first I have to face Magda. Don't worry," he added as he headed to the door. "But if I'm not back in an hour, send the Collinsport constabulary," he smiled broadly, though inside he knew it was just a bluff.

* * *

A feeling of foreboding gripped Beth as she watched Quentin leave. As she turned and headed toward to entrance to the servants' quarters, she heard Judith call to her.

"Beth, a word please," Judith's rich, aristocratic voice came from the upper landing of the stairs.

"Of course, Miss Collins." Beth waited until the older woman made her way down the stairs, and swept past her and into the drawing room.

Beth dutifully followed Judith into the drawing room.

"Close the doors please," Judith commanded. And again, Beth did as she was told. Then she waited while Judith positioned herself with her back to the fireplace, and began, "We will no longer require your services," Judith stated with intended finality.

It struck Beth with almost physical force. "I don't understand."

"Your services are no longer required. Your main responsibilities of late have been to assist with Jenny. With Jenny's …" Here, Judith searched for the appropriate euphemism. "With Jenny's passing, there are not sufficient responsibilities to continue to employ you. You've always been a good servant—loyal and trustworthy, but I can't keep you employed based on sentimentality alone."

When the shocked Beth said nothing, Judith went on, "You don't have to leave at once, and I'll certainly help you find another position. It might be best for you to have some distance from Collinsport. I know of a wonderful family in Boston, in need of a housekeeper. It's a position of authority and respect within the household. It would be a promotion for you, Beth."

"I … I don't know what to say. Collinsport – _Collinwood_ – is my home," Beth said as she finally found her voice. "I don't want to leave."

"Surely you must see it's for the best."

"Best for you maybe, but not for me," Beth responded angrily.

Judith matched her intensity. "I didn't want to say it, but had you taken your responsibilities more seriously, Jenny would still be alive. You coddled her … giving her that ridiculous baby-doll only fed her madness."

"Don't pretend that you care that she's dead. You're undoubtedly happy to have that problem solved," Beth spat back in anger.

"I think you've said more than enough, Beth. In deference to your years of loyal service, I'm still prepared to recommend you for the position in Boston, or for another suitable position. You have until the end of next week to decide. But whether you take the position or not, I want you gone – out of this house – out of Collinwood." With that Judith swept past Beth, opened the drawing room doors, signaling the conversation was over and that she expected Beth to take her leave.

Beth's face was drained of color as she fled the room.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Quentin knocked at the door of the Old House. He waited with hands in his pockets. It seemed a long time before Sandor appeared at the door and ushered him inside.

Magda, he found, was waiting for him in the drawing room. He didn't know what to expect, but she looked calm. "Eh, you came," she began.

"Of course," Quentin responded soberly. "I owe you at least that after …" Here he faltered. "After what happened," he concluded weakly.

"Yes, after _what happened_ to Jehna," Magda said pointedly.

"I know it isn't enough, but I'm so sorry." Quentin stood awkwardly, his eyes downcast.

Magda moved across the room, and turned to face Quentin. For his part, Sandor remained mute, shuffling from one foot to the other near the entrance to the room.

Then Magda said, "You are right. It is not enough. But I am a gypsy, so it is possible to arrive at something that is enough."

"Magda, everyone in Collinwood knows that my grandmother left everything to Judith. I have nothing to give you."

Magda appeared to consider this. Then she said, "I want what the old woman left you."

"But she left me nothing," Quentin countered.

"No, she guaranteed your right to live at Collinwood. We want to live here at the Old House as long as we like."

"Surely, that's up to Cousin Barnabas. He's made himself at home here."

"Yes, but you must make sure that Judith and Edward understand," she said with finality.

"And that's all you want?"

"You want me to ask for more? Maybe more than you have in your power to give, eh?"

"No," he said thoughtfully, "but I thought there would be something more that you want. I … I could ask Judith …"

"What? For money? Because that is the only thing a gypsy understands?" Magda caught herself and realized the moment was slipping away from her. She collected herself. "I wish Jehna had taught you something of our people. Then maybe you would understand." Silence hung between them for a moment. Then she added, "So, do we have a deal?"

"Yes, of course," Quentin replied, and allowed his obvious relief to suffuse his features.

"Good. Now, we seal our agreement with a drink." She turned to Sandor, "Sandor pour us each a drink."

Sandor was clearly not happy to be asked to play a role in what was about to happen. He decided to take the opportunity to try one last time to reason with Magda, albeit indirectly. "You know Mr. Barnabas doesn't like us to drink his sherry."

"Brandy then," Magda sneered at him.

He loped slowly to the small, round tea-table that held two decanters and a variety of glasses. He opened one of the decanters and began to pour, but his hand shook so badly that the brandy slopped over the edge of the glass. "Clumsy oaf," Magda spat at him. She went to him and roughly took the decanter from his hand. She angled her body to screen Quentin from their activity. She took the small vial from Sandor's shaking hand. She emptied it into one of glasses then added some brandy. She filled two more glasses, taking carefully note of the spiked drink. She turned and handed Quentin the spiked one, and kept one of the untainted drinks in her hand.

"Join us Sandor," she said looking gravely at her husband. Slowly he retrieved his drink from the table and went to join his wife and her unsuspecting victim. Magda raised her glass; Quentin followed suit. "To the future," she said.

"To the future," Quentin said. Then he drank deeply, as did Magda. But Sandor neither drank nor participated in the toast. He shook his head and turned back to the table leaving his drink untouched.

"I must get back," Quentin said.

"Stay a moment. Finish your drink. It is our custom to speak of the departed," Magda said. "From a young child, Jehna was always different. She was always admiring where she was not."

Quentin took another deep sip of brandy. "Is that what brought her to Collinsport?"

"Perhaps," she answered, and grew quiet.

Quentin downed the rest of his brandy then placed his empty glass on the tea-table. He turned to Magda, "I wish could tell you something to give you comfort, Magda. I can only say that she was passionate, and inspired that in others. And I … I …" Quentin suddenly felt flushed. A wave of heat and nausea swept over him. "I …" His hands went to his throat and hastily loosened his tie. "I feel unwell … so strange," he murmured as the room spun around him. He staggered a step or two then fell to his knees. Magda stood over him triumphantly. "What have you done to me?" He finally managed to put the thought into words.

Magda's right arm shot out toward him. Her thumb, index and pinkie fingers extended toward the incapacitated man. "Hear me now, Quentin Collins, for I place this curse on you. From now until the end of your days, you and all your descendants will bear the mark of my gypsy curse." Quentin steadied himself with his hands on his knees; his breathing was shallow and halting. "The full moon that reflects in lovers' eyes will bring you only misery. This is my curse upon you. Already you feel it working inside of you. It will come to fruition in the light of the full moon. This is my curse upon you."

Fear, horror and disbelief warred in Quentin's eyes. "Why?" he whispered.

"Because gypsies must avenge their kin, no matter what. Some would say that Jehna did not deserve it," she looked pointedly at Sandor. "But I do it as much for my people, for me, for Sandor, as I do for Jehna. I do it to preserve a way of life, and I do it because you took her life … because she died with fear in her heart … and now you too will know that fear each month and be reminded of the life you took."

Magda left the room with renewed vigor, leaving her helpless victim on his knees, breathing heavily, and clutching at his chest. "I'm sorry, Mr. Quentin," Sandor said.

Quentin managed to draw a slow, deep breath. He pulled himself to standing. He felt disheveled, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Quentin?" Barnabas appeared in the doorway. "Are you unwell?"

Quentin said nothing. He pushed past Barnabas and fled through the door of the Old House and out into the early evening twilight—leaving a bewildered Barnabas and his remorseful servant staring after him.


	8. Chapter 8

The Great House at Collinwood is home not only to the members of the Collins family, but also to generations of their secrets. For one woman, Maggie Evans, the secrets of the past haunt her present. She has resolved to unravel the mystery – the secret past – of the Great House's west wing. For some reason, as yet unknown to her, the secret past has collided with her present, with unsettling consequences.

Afternoon sunlight illuminated the corners where specters lurked after dark, and emboldened Maggie for the task at hand. She went first in search of Mrs. Johnson, the Collinwood housekeeper. At this time of afternoon, she knew the housekeeper would usually be in the small office off of the kitchen.

"Mrs. Johnson?" Maggie called as she knocked on the office door. There was no answer. She knocked again, "Mrs. Johnson, are you in?"

"No, she isn't," a voice from behind her visibly startled Maggie.

"Harry, you frightened me."

Harry Johnson was the housekeeper's grown son. He'd arrived unexpectedly one day, and had never left. His rat-like countenance and appearance endeared him to no one, seemingly including his mother, who was often heard berating him. Yet, the Collins family allowed him to stay on at Collinwood largely in deference to Mrs. Johnson's long and dedicated service to the household. Her son now lived with her in the servant's quarters, without a particular role in the household, though at various times he acted as chauffeur, handy man, or errand boy. Maggie couldn't put her finger on exactly what it was about him that gave her the creeps, but he did. Perhaps, it was the way he skulked about the house, eavesdropping, and looking to uncover information to exploit. Or perhaps, it was the way he was overly familiar and ingratiating, and not in the least bit genuine. Whatever the reason, Maggie blanched every time she was forced to be alone with him, as she was now.

"Mother's in Collinsport this afternoon."

"Do you know when she'll be back?" Maggie asked him.

He seemed to consider. "Not until late this afternoon, I'm afraid. Can I help? Is it important?" If anyone else had asked Maggie would have been grateful for the offer, but she knew instinctively that Harry was a creep.

"No—not terribly important," she said, already growing tired of conversing with him.

"That's funny, because it sounded important, the way you were knocking and calling her name."

Maggie huffed, "Fine. I was hoping to borrow her set of keys."

"Why?"

Maggie drew a deep breath, "David has managed to lock one of the closet doors, and I was hoping to unlock it. That's all. It's not an emergency." Maggie moved to pass him and leave.

"There's another set, you know," Harry said with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

Maggie was careful not to appear too anxious to get her hands on the keys. "Really. I'd like to borrow them. Do you know where they are?"

"Of course, I do. I mean I can get them for you. They're on a hook in the pantry. Wait here."

Harry went to the pantry and returned with a large key ring that was loaded with keys of different shapes and sizes. He handed it to Maggie, lingering a moment longer than she thought necessary when his hand grazed hers. Her mind heaved a silent sigh of revulsion.

"I'll bring them right back," she told him. It was the perfect afternoon—or at least it would be if Harry weren't skulking about the house. David and Amy were with Carolyn on an impromptu day-trip to Bangor. Mrs. Stoddard was at a hospital board meeting in Collinsport. And now apparently even Mrs. Johnson was out. Still, she had to adjust her plan because of the presence of the housekeeper's creepy and annoying son.

She headed upstairs to the schoolroom, and found a roll of masking tape used by the kids for art projects. Shoving the tape in the pocket of her plaid jumper, she closed the schoolroom door and headed toward the west wing. Along the way, she checked several times to make sure Harry hadn't followed her. When she reached the door to the forbidden wing of the house, she knelt down and examined the lock. There were only half a dozen keys on the ring by that particular lock company. All she had to do was to try them one by one until the lock opened. It took her four tries. The fourth key that she tried turned the lock and the door opened. She was aching to explore it at that very moment, but she worried that the pesky Harry could turn up at any minute. So, instead she took a piece of the masking tape, and secured the lock so that the door would remain unlocked. She closed it gently. To anyone who happened by, it would look as though it remained locked, but when she returned later that afternoon or evening, it would push open without needing the key again.

As she approached the landing of the stairs, she was unsurprised to see Harry heading up the stairs, undoubtedly in search of her.

"Oh, there you are," he said. "You were gone quite awhile."

"There were a lot of keys to try, Harry, but I found it in the end. Here they are," she said handing back the key ring to him, careful to avoid grazing his hand.

"Thanks. I'd better put it back. I wouldn't want my mother to think I'd done anything wrong."

* * *

Maggie returned to the schoolroom, and tried to focus on her lesson plans for the next day. She found herself distracted by anticipation of finding out what lay behind the door. She felt certain there would be clues there—clues to the identity of her mysterious man from the past. He had led her there for a reason. She felt certain of it.

"Maggie?" Harry's voice broke through her train of thought. "Maggie? Are you up here?"

She sighed, audibly this time. "I'm in the schoolroom," she called out as she headed to the door.

He arrived at the schoolroom door just as she opened it. "What is it Harry? I'm busy working on the children's lessons for tomorrow."

"It's Mother," he said.

"Is she alright?" Maggie was instantly concerned. Whatever she thought of Harry, Maggie genuinely liked Mrs. Johnson, in spite of her being a worrywart and her occasionally crabby demeanor.

"Yeah. It's nothing like that," he responded seeing how worried Maggie was. "It's just that I have to go into Collinsport and pick her up. She was supposed to get a ride back with Mrs. Stoddard, but now she's staying to have dinner with some other hospital board members, so Mother needs a ride. Doesn't seem right, Mrs. Stoddard leaving Mother without a way to get home."

Maggie ignored his complaint. "Okay," was all she said.

He took the hint and continued, "Dr. Hoffman is at the Old House. So, you'll be all alone here." Maggie gave him an expectant look. He went on, "I hate being in this creepy house all by myself," he said. "You're welcome to come along for the ride—that way, you won't have to be here all alone."

Maggie worked hard to muster a genuine smile, "Thanks Harry, but I'm not afraid to be on my own, and I have a lot of work to do." _And the sooner you leave, the sooner I can get into the west wing_ , she thought.

Maggie watched from the window of the schoolroom as Harry pulled away from the Great House in the estate's station wagon. When she was sure he was gone, she headed back to the west wing.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

The day had dawned sunny and clear. Perhaps the unseasonably warm weather was to blame, but Jamison and Nora had been restive and unruly all morning. Rachel rarely felt frustrated with her young charges, but today she felt at her wit's end. She'd had enough. By 10:30 in the morning, she was ready to yield and rethink her plans for the day.

"Alright, you two, put your books away," she told the children.

"Why?" Nora asked.

"Because we're going to go out for a walk."

"We usually do that in the afternoon," Nora said, in an annoying smarty-pants way.

"That's true, but it's usually too cool and gray to go out in the morning. Today's perfect. And if you're really good, we might go out again in the afternoon," she added as an enticement to improve their behavior.

While they were talking, Jamison was already stowing his books. "Well, you don't have to tell me twice," he said, suddenly helpful and cooperative.

The three of them headed downstairs. Jamison and Nora's behavior was instantly improved as they discussed which way they should walk, and the possibility of playing tag or hide and go seek in the outdoors. Rachel was saying no the latter and maybe to the former, when they happened into Quentin in the foyer. He had hung his jacket on a hook by the door; he wore no tie and had rolled up his sleeves to reveal his forearms in deference to the heat.

"Uncle Quentin," Jamison was the first to spot him. He ran to his uncle and gave him a hug. "Where have you been?" he asked in a tone of accusation.

"Nowhere. Just in my rooms," Quentin's response lacked his usual buoyancy.

"Mr. Collins," Rachel nodded to him formally as she and Nora approached.

"Miss Drummond," he responded in kind. "Shouldn't you be hard at work in the schoolroom?" he asked.

Rachel immediately noticed his changed countenance. He was still handsome of course, but he looked tired and dispirited. Dark patches encircled his eyes. His hair seemed a bit wild, though it suited him. In sum, he looked like a man deprived of sleep owing to some unspoken worry. Though she hadn't known him long, Rachel realized in that moment, that she felt she knew him well. "It's such a nice day. I thought we might enjoy being outdoors this morning. What about you?"

"I was on my way to visit my friend, Evan Handley, and decided it's too warm for a jacket, so I came back to leave it here."

"So, you're on your way to Mr. Handley's now?" Rachel asked.

Quentin offered her a wan smile and nodded.

"Do you mind if we walk with you as far as the Collinsport Road? Unless of course, you prefer your solitude," she added.

"Please Uncle Quentin?" Jamison added his entreaties to Rachel's invitation.

"Anything for you, Miss Drummond." Quentin opened the door for her. Jamison and Nora pushed past them and out the door, but not before Nora shot Quentin a disapproving look.

Once outside the children began to run ahead. "We're going toward the Collinsport Road," Rachel called after them.

"I know," Jamison called back, over his shoulder. "We heard you talking, you know." Then, they were off and running.

As Rachel and Quentin made their way down the Collinwood drive at a more deliberate pace than the children, Rachel was grateful she'd worn her muslin dress. It was the coolest thing she owned, and had there been a breeze, it would have flowed through the porous fabric. As it was though, the morning was still and very warm. And Rachel sensed her cheeks bore evidence of it.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you've been avoiding me, Rachel," Quentin said, more to start a conversation, than from any sense of conviction on the subject.

Rachel's cheeks now colored decidedly, and she pointedly looked away from him, "I've been busy with Nora and Jamison. I'm sorry. I …"

" _I'm_ the one who's sorry. I didn't mean to put you on the spot," Quentin said.

"You didn't," Rachel struggled to keep her discomfort from showing in her expression. "It's just that Miss Collins asked me to keep Nora and Jamison close to the schoolroom. She said there were things she couldn't explain, but it would be best if they were not under foot for a few days." Her hand went to her mouth, "Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything."

"If it's a secret, it's safe with me."

"Quentin?" Rachel began.

"Yes, Rachel."

"I hope you won't mind my saying so, but you seem out of sorts this morning. Is anything wrong?"

" _Everything_ is wrong, Rachel."

She sought out his eyes, and found them guarded in a way that she was not accustomed to. During their acquaintance, she had always found him to be open and forthcoming, almost to a fault. This was a very different facet of him.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, I wish there were, but there are things …" his voice trailed off.

"Mr. Handley then? Is that why you're on your way to see him?"

"Yes. I hope Evan will have the answers I'm looking for."

On impulse, she touched his arm, "I hope so too."

Looking up, she saw Jamison and Nora playing tug of war with a stick they must have picked up along the way. They were waiting just at the bend, where the drive to Collinwood met the Collinsport Road. She felt a moment of pride about the fact that the children had waited at just the right place. Jamison might be a bit wild, and Nora might be a bit peevish, but all in all, Rachel felt that the children were responding well to her.

When they reached the children, Jamison relinquished the stick to Nora and said, "I wish I could go with you to Mr. Handley's." And then by way of explanation to Rachel, "Mr. Handley's house is full of strange and spooky things he's brought back from all over the world. And a library full of books about magic and ghosts …"

"That's enough, Jamison," Quentin said, laying a hand on his nephew's shoulder.

"I don't want to go to Mr. Handley's ever!" Nora said petulantly. "I don't like spooky things." Then she ran to Rachel and throwing her arms around the governess' waist, she cried, "Oh, say we don't have to go, Rachel."

"Baby!" Jamison chided her.

"Jamison, that's enough," Rachel scolded. And then to Nora, she said, "It's alright Nora. We're not going to Mr. Handley's. We're going to take the path through the woods back. The trees will shade us from the sun and make it nice and cool on our way back to the house."

Rachel turned to bid Quentin farewell.

"Good day, Mr. Collins."

Quentin bowed his head slightly, and for the first time that morning, offered her a hint of his usual smile, "Miss Drummond."

Nora was already tugging on her hand, pulling her toward the path that led into the woods. Rachel offered Quentin a smile and shrug of her shoulders as a parting gesture. When they'd gone a few steps down the path, she turned back and saw Quentin's departing figure heading down the road.

* * *

A few hours—a few moments even—could change the direction of one's entire life. That thought, that realization, had driven all other thoughts from Quentin's mind. How different might his life have been had he not struggled with Jenny—had he not _killed_ Jenny.

On the previous evening, he had run from the Old House, certain in the belief that his late wife's vengeful sister had placed a gypsy curse on him. His guilt and fear drove him to Widow's Hill. There, he contemplated the myth of Collinsport women throwing themselves onto the rocks below. Though he'd heard the myth his entire life, this was the first time he thought how much courage it would take to look at those rocks and willing choose them over facing life.

He'd sat and contemplated his life. The sound of the relentless waves and crashing surf an insistent accompaniment to his retrospection. He'd made more than his share of mistakes, and it suited him to run through them one-by-one in his mind. So many mistakes and missteps led him to this moment.

He was unaware of the passage of time, or the needs of his own body. He sat transfixed and reflective. When his mind brought his reflections to the present, he wondered about the gypsy curse. _Is it real_? He knew that stranger things than curses existed in the world. His own interest in the occult and supernatural told him it was so. And if it were real, what would it do? He could go back to Magda and force the answers from her, but after a night spent contemplating his past mistakes, he could see that that would be just another to add to the already long list.

There must be another way. And as dawn broke, and the sun inched its way into view, he decided to call on his friend Evan Handley. Evan, whose knowledge of the occult far exceeded Quentin's, would know what to do. So it was that Quentin found his resolve to return to the Great House, make himself presentable, and then go to see his friend, and he hoped, find the answers that eluded him all night.

Now, as he approached Evan's house, he reflected on the role his friend had played in this. Evan had known that Jenny was alive. He had prioritized keeping the Collins family as a client of his law practice over his friendship with Quentin. Two days ago, Quentin would have felt his betrayal with force. Today, he saw it as a minor one compared to that of his sister, brother, and the woman who claimed to love him. These betrayals were deep indeed, and led him to this dark place from which he might never emerge.

Quentin drew a deep breath, knocked loudly on the door, and then waited. Quite a few long moments passed before the door opened and Evan stood before him. "May I come in?" he asked. His still subdued affect still firmly in place.

"Of course." Evan opened the door widely and gestured for Quentin to enter. "I heard about Jenny. I'm sorry, Quentin."

"I'd forgotten how quickly news travels, especially when it's bad, and especially when it's about me."

"Judith sent word. She thought I should know, in case there were any," he paused, then continued, "necessary arrangements to make. Maybe I should have told you," he added.

"Maybe, but I'm not here for recriminations, Evan. I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. I came because I need your help."

"Of course, if I can. Tell me how I can help." By now they had made their way into Evan's office and library. Evan motioned for Quentin to sit. But Quentin waved him off, preferring to pace instead.

"Did you know that Jenny was a gypsy?" Quentin asked.

"Was she indeed? I had no idea. She was certainly refined …" Evan began, but was cut short by Quentin's withering look.

"She wasn't just any gypsy. She was Magda's sister. And she died by my hand."

"Yes, so I understand from Judith. So, how can I help? Do you need me to convince Judith to buy the gypsy off in some way?"

"She doesn't want money. It turns out that all that interests her is vengeance." Quentin's voice broke. He stopped pacing and turned to where Evan sat watching him. "Evan, she put a curse on me."

Evan laughed a deep hearty laugh. "A gypsy curse?"

"She meant it, Evan."

"How did she place this curse?" Evan asked him, still smiling but no longer laughing.

"She lured me to the Old House, and then put something my drink. I was incapacitated, and for a while I couldn't move. That's when she told me that the curse would come to fruition when the moon was full."

"What?" Evan's smile disappeared. "Are you sure, Quentin? She said the full moon?"

Quentin rung his hands together, "Of course I'm sure."

Evan went to the bookshelf and retrieved a couple of dusty volumes. He took them to his desk and began flipping through the pages of one, then the other.

"What is it, Evan?"

"This curse … I think I know what it is." He looked pale even for him. He turned his worried face to his friend and passed him the open book.

"I don't want to read it, Evan. Just tell me. What is it?"

"Lycanthropy … a curse that transforms a man into a wolf-like beast when the moon is full."

"No," Quentin said, burying his face in his hands. "It can't be true."

"Maybe it isn't, but we'll know soon enough. The moon will be full tonight."

"How do you know? This one," Evan said laying a hand on one of the volumes, "it's an almanac. You'll want to invest in one."

"Really Evan—my life is at stake."

"This isn't the worst news, Quentin."

"Enlighten me."

"According to legend, the wolf can be contained."

"Contained? How?"

"Within the sign of the pentagram. Let me read more, and gather what I need. I'll meet you in your rooms at Collinwood before the moon rises."

"Why are you helping me, Evan?" Quentin's suspicion about his friend lingered.

"Because, we're friends, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Jenny. This is my way of making amends. Friends?" he offered Quentin his hand.

"Friends," Quentin confirmed, shaking the proffered hand.

* * *

Late that afternoon, Evan arrived at Collinwood, as he promised he would. He brought what he would need in small carrying case. He was surprised when a fresh-faced young woman in a muslin dress answered his knock, rather than Beth as he expected.

"Evan Handley to see Quentin Collins," he said by way of introduction.

The young woman stepped aside and ushered him in with an extended arm. "Please come in, Mr. Handley."

"And you are?" he asked with a well-lubricated leer.

"Rachel Drummond—I'm Jamison and Nora's governess."

"Of course," Evan drawled. "The governess, of course. A pleasure to meet you." Not waiting for her response, he added, "Where's Beth?"

"She's out, tending to matters for Miss Collins, I believe," was Rachel's noncommittal response.

"And Miss Judith? Is she at home? I'd like to say hello, if I may," he asked.

"I'm afraid Miss Collins is in Collinsport for the evening."

"Of course, the annual hospital board visiting day." A pleased expression came to his face.

"I'll let Mr. Collins know that you're here," Rachel turned toward the stairs.

Evan reached out and stayed her with a hand on her arm. "Don't bother. He's expecting me, and I know the way." He began to make his way up the stairs, carrying case in hand. Half way up he turned and said, "Miss Drummond, if you see Beth, would you please let her know that Quentin will be spending the evening with me at my house."

"Of course. I'd be happy to, Mr. Handley."

He bowed slightly, "Thank you, my dear." With that, he continued up the stairs and into the inner sanctum of the house. Leaving Rachel to hope that the lawyer was there to help Quentin. If so, she could forgive his oily countenance.

When Evan arrived at Quentin's apartment in the west wing of the Great House, Quentin was pacing the floor, as he had been for the past hour. An open decanter and a glass with two fingers of brandy stood on the table. Quentin welcomed him in. "Well?" he asked.

"I think I know what to do," Evan told him.

"You _think_?" Quentin said, with evident concern.

"Quentin, I'm taking a big risk here. If this doesn't work, I'll be alone with the beast."

"I'm sorry, Evan. I know you're here to help. I'm just …"

"My dear boy … I mean, Quentin, it's understandable. But I really do believe this will work. I'm staking my life on it. And now, we haven't a minute to lose." Evan opened the bag, and from it took out a large bag of salt and one of the dusty volumes from his library. The latter he placed on the table next to the decanter. The former he took to the largest clear area of the floor. "We'll do in here," he said.

"Do what, Evan?"

"We're going to create a pentagram on the floor using the salt. You'll stand inside of it. As the moon rises and you transform, the pentagram will contain the wolf."

"Transform?" Quentin's voice was shrill and panicky. "I thought you found a solution?"

"It is, Quentin. It's a temporary solution until we can find something more enduring. I promise I'll keeping looking, but for now, this will keep you from hurting anyone or yourself. It's all we have for now."

Quentin buried his face in his hands. His life was unraveling, and it wasn't a very good one to begin with. He tried to envision his future, but he could not. In that moment, it seemed to him that his only hope was that the curse was a bluff to make him worried and panicked, or that the curse had failed to take hold, and it would all be over before it even began. Either way, the prudent thing to do was to wait within the pentagram. "Go on, Evan. I'm ready."

Evan poured the salt to form the outline of a pentagram; he murmured an incantation as he did so. When he was done, he stepped carefully away. He said to Quentin, "Hurry, the moon will be rising any moment now."

Quentin stepped carefully into the center of the pentagram. "What if it doesn't work? What if I transform but I'm not contained?"

Evan looked grave. He opened his bag and took out a silver pendant in the shape of a pentagram. He put it on. "This will protect me." Then he took out a pistol, "And this will protect others, if you escape. It won't kill you, but it will slow you down. I asked the silversmith in Collinsport to cast some silver bullets, but they won't be ready until tomorrow."

"Silver bullets?"

"They're fatal to lycanthropes."

They waited for the moon to rise in silence. Evan took a seat, and poured himself a glass of brandy. Quentin waited restlessly within the pentagram. As darkness gradually began to fall, Quentin thought perhaps he was safe.

Evan rose and lighted two lamps. He went to the window, drew back the curtain, and looked out. An orange glow at the horizon was all that was left of daylight. "It won't be long now." He turned back to Quentin.

"Perhaps …" Quentin began. Suddenly, he couldn't go on.

"Quentin?" Evan looked worried, but didn't approach the pentagram.

Searing pain gripped Quentin. He moaned—deep and guttural. "It's happening," he barely eked out the words. They would be his last before the transformation robbed him of his human voice, and handsome face. In a few short moments, Quentin was completely unrecognizable.

* * *

Collinwood 1968

Maggie's hand shook slightly as she opened the door to the west wing. She followed the same steps as she did in her hypnotic trance. It led her to the door of _his_ room. She was at once excited to finally learn more about the mysterious man and afraid of what she might learn.

She opened the door slowly and looked inside. Her eyes widened.


	9. Chapter 9

At the Great House on the Collinwood estate, sunrise vanquishes night and heralds the promise of a new day. But just as the darkness of night obscures the fearsome from view, dawn's morning light transforms its terror to something more benign.

Collinwood 1897

Quentin woke with a blinding headache. His hand reflexively reached for his head. It was then that he realized that each limb and every joint ached. His jacket was in shreds. Dirt from the floor was smeared on his clothes, face, and hands. Miraculously, Evan slept in the chair across the room from him.

Painfully, he tried to pull himself to sitting. "Ugh," he moaned aloud. He drew himself to his hands and knees. A wave of nausea swept through him. He felt parched and weak. He pushed himself to a low squat, then rocked back on his heels and fell back to his seat. A muffled moan accompanied the effort.

"Quentin! You're awake," Evan got to his feet and went to help his friend to his feet, but Quentin waved him off.

"I can't stand. Not yet," he croaked through parched lips.

Evan smiled broadly. "It worked," he enthused. "We did it. You survived your first transformation."

"Is this what surviving feels like?" Quentin asked weakly. Now he felt marginally better. He harnessed every bit of energy to get to his feet. He found his legs were shaky and uncertain. He stumbled to the table to pour himself a drink—brandy with a splash of water. He gulped in down in two large mouthfuls. At length he asked, "What happened?"

"Do you remember anything?"

"Not much—the pain and then my hands." He looked at his hand turning it over and examining it. Gone was the hair; gone were the claws—the last thing he remembered from his transformation. His hands were his own again. He put down his glass, and went to examine himself in the mirror. He looked the same, just a bit worse for wear. "What happened? I want to know."

"It worked! The wolf was contained within the pentagram. You turned into a fearsome beast, Quentin," Evan told him with an unsettling degree of admiration and exhilaration. "You grew hair, fangs, and claws, so rapidly that I could hardly believe it actually happened. But there you were—part wolf, part man. Each time you approached the boundary of the pentagram, you whelped like it burned you. And you tried, believe me. You tried again and again to get out of the pentagram. You growled and bared your teeth at me for hours. Finally, the beast wore itself out. Eventually, after glaring mercilessly at me, it finally fell asleep. I watched it until the sun came up and you changed back into yourself again. I must have fallen asleep myself then."

"Thank you Evan. I owe you more than I can say." Quentin went to his friend and shook his hand warmly.

"I'm glad it worked. It will buy us some time to look for a more permanent solution. In the meantime though, I have some bad news for you."

* * *

Elisabeth Chavez, known as Beth since she was a little girl, was born and raised in Collinsport. Her father, a Portuguese fisherman, had married a local girl. Less than a year later, Beth was born. She lived in town with her parents in a two-room fishing shack on the bluffs above the sea. She went to the local school; helped her mother with endless chores; and helped her father by mending fishing nets, and sorting his catch. It was hard, but she thought it was perfect, and never imagined any other kind of life.

When she was fourteen years old, her world changed. Her mother took ill and died a short time later. Her father was a hard, practical man. He immediately turned his attention to finding a helpmate. She did not need to be beautiful or pleasant, just strong and useful. And in short order he found such a woman in Bangor, and married her. Suddenly, the small shack that Beth had considered cozy, seemed cramped. For the first time in her life, she felt like an interloper in her own home.

Her new stepmother felt it too. Not long after she arrived, she arranged for Beth to go to work at the Great House at Collinwood.

Her stepmother had met Edith Collins when the hospital board had visited the shacks on the bluff. She told Mrs. Collins of the cramped conditions that fishing families had to endure. Offhandedly Mrs. Collins had offered to be of assistance, if ever she might. The new Mrs. Chavez had taken her up on the offer, and written to Mrs. Collins asking if there might be a position for Beth. A few weeks later, at the age of fourteen, Beth stood outside of the servant's entrance, ready to begin her new life. She had been at the Great House ever since.

She had fallen in love with Quentin from the very start. He was far and away the most handsome and dashing man she'd ever seen—though he was not much older than she. He carried himself in the world with an assurance that masked the insecurities of the young man underneath. She saw it at once, and it made her love him even more.

For his part, Quentin always seemed happy and ready to accept her love and admiration—a pattern that became fixed as they grew up.

Now, Beth sat at the small writing table in her room in the servants' quarters of Collinwood, turning her options over again and again in her mind. It was odd that she hadn't seen Quentin since Jenny's funeral. She had tried to seek him out. She had gone to his rooms on two separate occasions, to no avail. One time she was sure she heard noises within, but he didn't respond to her knocking or her soft entreaties to open the door. She was worried about him.

She had reluctantly turned to Judith, and met with unsatisfactory results. Judith assumed that Quentin was off somewhere salving his emotional wounds with alcohol, and possibly women. The latter, Judith added pointedly to hurt Beth, or so it seemed to her. Then Judith reminded her that the clock was ticking, and that she expected Beth's departure soon.

A knock on her door broke through her thoughts. She knew at once it was Quentin. He'd reemerged at last and came looking for her. She opened the door. He stood there, as she knew he would. He looked troubled and tired—more tired than she'd ever seen him look before. Instantly, she was awash with worry. "Quentin, where have you been? I've been so worried about you. I went to your rooms …" She held the door open and ushered him in, and closed the door behind him.

"I need your help," he said without preamble.

Only now did she notice the carryall bag in his hand. "Are you going somewhere? I haven't seen you since the funeral, and you offer no explanation," she said roughly.

"I don't have time for one now, Beth. But I promise if you help me … well, if you help me, you'll understand. But right now, time is of the essence."

She looked down. Shame crept into her breast. Of course, she would help him, but was it the only reason he sought her out? "What do you want me to do?"

He placed the carryall bag on her bed, and opened it. From it, he retrieved a bag of salt and an old book—a faded red ribbon marked a page within. As he removed these things, he explained quickly and briefly. "Magda placed a gypsy curse on me for killing Jenny. When the moon is full I transform into a beast. I can't tell you what it looks like, but Evan says it fearsome."

"Evan?" she interjected.

"Yes, he helped me contain it last night, but this month the moon is full for two nights. Evan had to be in Collinsport tonight, so I need you to do what he did last night. It's my only hope to contain it … to stop it from …"

"Quentin, I don't understand any of this," she cried, worry etched on her face.

"You'll understand everything when the moon rises. That's why we have to act fast." He looked out of the high window in her room. Dusk was already falling. "There's no time left," he said. He opened the book to the page marked by the ribbon, and instructed her on how to replicate what Evan had done the night before. When the pentagram was complete, he stepped inside of it. "You must listen to me, Beth," he told her urgently. " _Whatever_ happens, you must make sure the pentagram stays intact. Its power is what contains the beast. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Yes, I think so."

"If you're afraid, go out in the hall and lock the door … then go to my rooms. And Beth," Quentin's voice conveyed urgency, "there's a pistol in the bag. Take it. If anything goes wrong, you must use it."

Beth had tears in her eyes, as she shook her head in assent. She was completely unprepared for what happened next. Quentin dropped to his knees as he'd done the night before. "Go!" he told her fiercely. Pain wracked his body. He now understood that the transformation was underway. Beth saw only the man she loved in the grip of torturous pain. She went to him, and in the process the sweep of her hem brushed the salt pentagram, destroying its integrity.

"Quentin!" Beth was on her knees cradling his shoulders in her arm. In one swift move, he pushed her aside. His strength was astonishing to them both. She tumbled to the floor, falling backwards with a painful thud. He sprang up wildly. The beast was already in control. His hands were covered with hair; claws protruded from his fingertips. His eyes were wild; and his once handsome face was now almost wolf-like. "Quentin, no!' she screamed.

With the last bit of his humanity, he turned and dashed from her room, running wildly down the hall, and out the back entrance of Collinwood.

* * *

Rachel went to close the drawing room window against a persistent draught. A veil of wispy clouds floated across the full moon.

"Rachel, is everything alright?" Judith asked.

"Yes, Miss Collins—there's a beautiful full moon tonight. It's quite breathtaking."

"I always find the full moon to be ominous. Don't you?"

Turning back to face the older woman, Rachel said, "Ominous? No. Romantic perhaps … in the classical sense," Rachel added with gentle laugh.

Judith rose to her feet, "I remember a time when I would have thought so too. But this evening, I find the moon ominous, and myself tired. I'm going to retire early this evening. I hope you don't mind if I leave you on your own."

"No, of course not." Although Rachel genuinely enjoyed Judith's company, and recognized the distinction it conferred on her vis-à-vis the other household staff, she also appreciated her solitude. Spending as much time as she did with Nora and Jamison, and then with Judith, she missed having time for quiet reflection or to read for her own enjoyment. "I'd like to enjoy this beautiful moon awhile longer. Goodnight Miss Collins."

"Goodnight Rachel." With that, Judith headed upstairs to her apartment of rooms.

Rachel stood looking out of the window at the moon. A parade of thin clouds passed in front of it, emphasizing both aspects of it—the romantic and the ominous. In the distance, she heard an animal howling.

Rachel knew that Dirk Wilkins would be coming by shortly to do his evening rounds. The servants' hall was abuzz about the accident that left the young groundskeeper with a seriously wounded arm. He'd been checking on one of the abandoned fishing shacks on the edge of the estate. A misstep resulted in a barbed hook-shaped hanger that the fishermen used for hanging large fish, piercing his arm. The talk was that he was lucky he hadn't lost his arm altogether. But also, some questions about how he'd made it back to the Great House with such an injury. Rachel had not seen him since it happened, and she would happily avoid him now, if she could. There was something about him that made her feel uneasy. With that in mind, she drew the heavy drapes closed and headed upstairs.

She had only reached the second step, when she heard a knock at the door. She hesitated. It wasn't _very_ late, and yet it was beyond the time visitors would normally arrive. It could be important, she told herself. And there was nothing to fear—all that talk about the ominous moon was just that—talk.

She went to the door and opened it just enough to see who was there. "Good evening, Mr. Collins." As soon as she saw that it was Barnabas, she wondered why she hadn't expected it to be him. Who else would come so late? The decidedly odd Collins cousin kept very strange hours, invariably arriving not long after dinner. But this was late even for him; the hall clock chimed 9:00 nearly half an hour ago. "Please come in." She held the door open by way of invitation.

"I'm afraid it's very late to be paying a visit," he began.

"Yes, you've already missed Miss Collins. She retired early this evening."

"Actually, it's you I've come to see," he said.

"Me?" Rachel demurred. Then remembering her manners, she invited him into the drawing room. She noticed that he held a small container in his hands. She preceded him into the drawing room, and sat on the davenport. A moment later, he joined her.

"I have something for you," he said, as he moved a bit closer. He showed her the small container. "It's the reason I came by so late. You see, I was exploring the attic of the Old House and I came across this." He held it out to her.

She took it from him. It was a round, ornate silver box—no, it was a music box of the sort that had been popular at the turn of the last century—or so it seemed to Rachel. She opened the lid, and it began to tinkle a sweet tune.

She smiled what she hoped would seem a genuine smile. "It's lovely," she said, closing the lid and silencing the music.

"I believe it belonged to Josette Collins. Her portrait hangs in the drawing room of the Old House," he said with a surprising degree of emotion.

"Yes," Rachel responded neutrally, "I recall seeing it."

"Then you must have noticed the resemblance. You are so like her. That's why I thought you should have this."

"Thank you, Mr. Collins. I'm flattered, but I can't accept it. If it belonged to Josette Collins, then surely it belongs with a member of the family—Miss Judith perhaps, or Nora might like it when she gets older."

Barnabas was not ready to give up. "But I want _you_ to have it," he insisted gently.

"I'm sorry Mr. Collins. I can't accept it. If for no other reason than Miss Collins would look askance at me for accepting a gift of this sort from a member of the family. She might well get the wrong impression. I value my position here, and I would never do anything to jeopardize it. I hope you understand," she said with finality.

"I do," he bowed his head. "I can see now how the gesture might be misinterpreted. I hope we can still be friends."

"Of course. I didn't mean to imply otherwise. I value our friendship, and I know that Miss Collins wants you to feel as at home here as you do at the Old House."

She rose and he followed suit. She handed the music box back to him. "Thank you again, Mr. Collins. I'm truly flattered by the gesture. Shall I see you to the door?"

* * *

Quentin woke as he had the day before with a raging headache. He felt disoriented. Where was he? He lay face down. It was cold and damp. He pushed himself up to his hands and knees, and then rocked back to sitting. He was in the woods. The sun was just rising. Every muscle ached. He felt as though every part of him had been ripped apart and put back together again.

He took stock of himself—dirt and leaves clung to him. Then he saw it. He cried out aloud, "no!" There was blood all over his hands. His shirt, too, was blood smeared and tattered.

A voice called to him through the woods, "Quentin? Is that you?" It was Beth. "Quentin?"

"Here," he said. His voice was raw.

Beth followed it toward him. "Oh, Quentin!" she cried when she saw him.

"What have I done?" he asked, still dazed. He struggled to his feet, and surveyed the area around him. He saw nothing to account for the blood. Yet he knew. He knew that he … that _it_ had done something—something awful.

She approached him, but kept her distance too. "You broke free … I … I couldn't stop you. I searched for you, but …"

"Then you're a fool," he said harshly. "It could have killed you."

"No, Quentin. I don't believe you could do that."

"No, not me, but this … this beast I become …" He breathing was heavy, and his voice was shrill. "Don't you understand? When it takes over, it's not me. I don't know where I've been all night. I don't know what I've done. But look at me, Beth!" His voice was harsh, "Look at this blood. It did something to cause all this blood."

"Quentin, let's go home now, before people start waking up."

He followed her in silence as she led him back through the woods toward the Great House, though every muscle in body rebelled. "It's gone now, Quentin. You're you again. That's what matters."

And though he said nothing, he thought darkly, _it's gone until the next full moon_. Bleak hopelessness flooded him.

When the Great House came into view, Quentin found his voice. He reached out and touched Beth's elbow. She flinched. He closed his eyes momentarily. He could hardly blame her. She could hardly look at him the same way after what she'd witnessed. No wonder she recoiled from his touch. "Why don't you go in alone, and bring back a clean shirt for me? That way if anyone does see me, I won't look like this."

While she was gone, Quentin did his best to clean himself up. He felt chilled from the damp clothes that clung to him. Still, he removed the bloody shirt. He dug a shallow hole at the base of one of the trees, and buried the shirt in it.

He wrapped his arms around himself against the morning chill. He paced to stay warm. A part of him desperately wanted to know what the beast had done. A part of him wanted to be able to remember. But another part, the larger part was grateful to have no memory of it.

Although it seemed an eternity of waiting, Beth returned relatively quickly with a clean shirt and a jacket. He put both on and thanked her profusely. Together they made their way back to the servants' entrance to the house. Quentin took the back stairs back to his rooms, and Beth returned to hers via the kitchen.

* * *

Quentin stayed in his rooms all day. He washed until he felt he had erased every trace of the beast and its unknown deeds. He needed no food. He had everything he needed in a full brandy decanter. He filled his glass again and again, until he felt numb in body and mind. Then, he slept.

 _The beast had stalked its prey—sniffing the air, picking up the scent, and then tracking it through the woods. It did not think. It acted on instinct alone. It moved like a man, and then crouched down like an animal, hiding among the trees._

 _Its prey became aware of its presence—halting to look back—the scent of fear permeating the air. Then the prey took off running—wild and desperate, panting from the sudden exertion. It was then that the beast struck. It craved the chase, and its obliging prey provided it._

 _Cornering its prey, the beast had used its fangs and claws to demand the prey's submission. When the prey continued to struggle, the beast asserted its final—and fatal—dominance. The prey struggled no more. The beast howled its satisfaction, and stalked back into the woods._

Quentin woke with a start.

* * *

It was evening by the time Quentin made his way downstairs. Necessity had at last driven him from his rooms. The brandy decanter was empty, and he finally felt the need for food. He went first to the family dining room, and availed himself of a light repast laid out by the cook on the sideboard, as it was everyday at this time.

He thought to go to the wine cellar in search of more brandy, but decided instead to go to the drawing room to see which bottles Judith had already had brought up from the cellar.

He felt empty, hollowed out inside. He'd never experienced anything like it. He knew there were some that would say it was his just desserts for his dissolute life, and perhaps they were right.

Despite his emotional emptiness, he sensed right away that something was wrong when he entered the drawing room. At first glance, it was like any other evening—Judith doing needlework on the davenport, Rachel in the chair reading, silently. She chewed gently on her lower lip—a sure sign she was worried or nervous. They looked up at him, moving in unison.

"Quentin, where have you been all day?" Judith asked sternly.

"Why Judith, did you miss me?" he feigned lightheartedness.

Her response was harsh and immediate. "Can't you be serious for once, Quentin? A woman is dead."

He felt the color drain from his face. "A woman," he murmured.

"Yes. Here on the estate. It appears to be an animal attack. Similar to the ones they've had in town. Right here on the estate," she repeated, obviously upset.

She got to her feet and went to face Quentin. "She tried to take shelter in the mausoleum, but the animal cornered and killed her there."

Quentin looked flushed and staggered for a moment. He squeezed out the question, "Who … who was she?"

"A teacher from the school in Collinsport. She was visiting one of students who was ill and couldn't come to school." Judith's voice broke as she went on, "She cut across the estate on her way back to the road." Then she collected herself, "The sheriff came by to gather a search party. They're out searching the grounds for the animal that did it." She continued in a lecturing tone, "We looked for you, Quentin. With Edward and Carl away, you are the man in this family. You should be leading the search."

Her words struck him with force. "I'm sorry Judith. I was … ill."

"Passed out from inebriation, more like," she spat at him.

Quentin was visibly shaken. Tears pricked Rachel's eyes. She hated to see him so.

"I'm sorry, Judith," he repeated more emphatically. "I'm sorry to be such a disappointment. I'm sorry for everything." He practically ran from the room.

* * *

Quentin fought back tears. _It killed her_ , he thought. He looked at his hands. _More blood on my hands_. He struggled to pull himself together. It was bad enough that all of Collinsport, all of the servants, even his own family thought him a drunk and worse—a coward. The truth was far worse.

Instead of heading upstairs to his rooms, he headed down to the wine cellar. The housekeeper had lit the gaslights, making it easy for him to make his way there. In truth, he could have found the bottles of brandy in the darkness, but the light that bled through made it that much easier. He went straight to it, and retrieved a bottle without regard to quality or vintage—after all, it didn't matter. All that mattered was dulling the pain.

He headed to the back stairs that led to the west wing. Along the way, he noticed Beth's door was ajar, and faith light emanated from within.

"Beth, are you here?" he asked as he knocked softly.

The door opened slowly to reveal that she was in fact in her room. "Come in." A small candelabrum stood on her writing table and illuminated the small room. Quentin followed her in. She sat on her bed and gestured for him to take a seat in the chair at her writing table.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked her, as he set the bottle down on the table.

"No, thanks."

He looked at her. It was heartbreaking. "I'm sure you know by now that I killed someone last night. I killed someone _else_ last night—a schoolteacher from Collinsport." He buried his head in hands. "I don't know how to live with what I've done … what _its_ done." He finally allowed it to sink in, and the emotions took him. He sobbed silently; his quaking shoulders the only visible sign. At length, he composed himself. He wiped the tears away, and looked up at Beth.

She seemed remote. Her face was impassive, and her posture ramrod straight. "I'm leaving Collinwood," she began.

"What do you mean you're leaving? Collinwood is your home." Quentin was incredulous.

"Judith no longer requires my services. With Jenny," she paused, then began again, "With Jenny's death, there's not much for me to do here."

"I'll speak to her," Quentin told her. He leaned forward and perched on the edge of his seat, his knees practically touching hers. "I can get through to her."

"I don't want you to. I want to leave."

"I don't understand," Quentin said. His eyebrows contracted toward one another and he shook his head.

"I _want_ to leave Collinwood."

"But Collinwood is your home," he repeated.

"No, Collinwood is _your_ home. I'm an employee—one whose services are no longer needed." She barely moved as she spoke, but she worked to meet his gaze.

"Where will you go? What will you do?" he asked.

"Judith recommended me for a job in Boston, but I'm still considering my options. In the meantime, I saved some money and I'll be staying at the Collinsport Inn."

"Boston?" he repeated absently, as though he'd not heard the rest. "I thought … I mean…" She glanced away as he looked at her. "It's because of what I've done, isn't it? It's because you've seen what I become. You've seen that _thing_."

"No, Quentin." She stood and moved away, turning her back to him.

"Why then?" he cried plaintively.

"Because you don't love me." She turned back to face him. Her expression grew wistful, "I remember the first time I saw you. I think I fell in love with you from the start."

"I remember the first time I saw you too," he countered.

"You remember the first time you _noticed_ me," she responded bitterly. "I watched as you flirted with others, married Jenny, chased Laura halfway across the world. Through it all, my heart was always yours, if only you'd claim it."

"Beth," he began, but stopped as the truth of her words began to take shape in his mind. "Judith says I'm incapable of love. Perhaps she's right." Self-pity colored his tone.

"I don't believe that, but you don't love me. And I deserve to find love, Quentin, and so do you."


	10. Chapter 10

The Old House on the Collinwood estate was home to the great Collins family of 1795. When the family patriarch, Joshua Collins, built the Great House, a much larger and modern mansion on the estate, the Old House was left to an uncertain fate. But through the years, there was one constant—the fate of the Old House was bound to that of Barnabas Collins. When Barnabas, the vampire, was freed in 1967, he returned to the Old House and worked to restore it to its former glory. He also restored it to its original state, without any of the modern conveniences that had long since been added to the Great House.

It was almost as though the weather sensed Maggie Evans' arrival at the Old House. The day had been cool, but sunny. As soon as she left the Great House, the clouds began to gather. By the time she reached the Old House, the sun was completely obscured and a forceful breeze caused the fallen leaves to swirl around her ankles.

She stood on the doorstep, poised to knock. She drew a deep breath, and silently admonished herself for nearly turning back. For some unknown reason, the house itself filled her with a sense of deep, inexplicable foreboding.

She knocked loudly then stuck her hands deep into the pockets of her mackintosh. She was glad now that she'd worn it. Still, the chill of the afternoon, and the necessity of walking from the Great House to the Old House, reminded her that some of Barnabas's idiosyncrasies were strange indeed—like eschewing modern conveniences like a telephone. Had he been anyone else, she could have picked up the phone and called him. Instead, she left the Great House unattended and sought him out at the Old House.

When the door opened, it was Julia Hoffman standing there. "Maggie? I'm surprised to see you. Is anything wrong?"

"Hi Julia. No, nothing's wrong. I was hoping to speak to Barnabas, if he's around."

A guarded expression came to the doctor's face. She narrowed her eyes, as she responded, "Barnabas is still in Boston."

Maggie heaved a disappointed sigh. "Boston? With everything that's going on, I'd forgotten he was away."

Julia pulled the door open. "Why don't you come in and tell me about everything that's going on?"

"I'd like to," Maggie told her, "but I've left the Great House unattended. Carolyn took the kids to Bangor, and Mrs. Stoddard, Mrs. Johnson and Harry are all in Collinsport. I wouldn't want them to return and find no one home. I had thought Barnabas might be persuaded to accompany me back."

"Hmmmm," Julia began, "If he were here I've no doubt he would be happy to." Recollecting her tone, she continued more amiably, "Will I do instead? It's nearly time for me to head back to the Great House anyway. You can tell everything that's going on on the way."

"Thanks Julia. Yes, I'd like that."

"Let me get my bag and coat." A few moments later, Julia returned wearing a rust-colored tweed coat. A forest green handbag hung over her right elbow; in her left hand she carried her ubiquitous medical bag.

Together, they made their way back along the well-trod path that connected the two main houses on the estate.

Maggie began, "Julia, I owe you an apology."

"Oh?" the older woman responded. "Does it have anything to do with _everything that's going on_?" she asked knowingly.

"Yes, I'm afraid it does." Maggie felt her cheeks burn, and she knew that they colored as evidence of her embarrassment. "You see, I lied to you … about what I saw while I was under hypnosis."

"Yes—I sensed you were holding something back."

"You see, I saw a room in the Great House, and _he_ was there. That's why I wanted to speak to Barnabas. He knows so much family history and so much about, well, both of the houses."

"And you thought Barnabas might be able to tell how to find the room?" Julia was confused.

"No. That's just it. He—the man from the past—led me to the room—to _his_ room—it's in the west wing."

"Which has been locked for as long as I've been at Collinwood," the doctor noted.

"Promise me you won't tell Mrs. Stoddard or Mr. Collins," Maggie began urgently.

"Tell them what?"

"I figured out a way to get in."

"Did you indeed," Julia said with unabashed admiration.

"Yes and I went there today. Only, when I went inside, it was completely different. It wasn't the same room!" Maggie's voice was emphatic.

"Maybe you went to the wrong room," Julia said reasonably.

"No, I don't think so—everything else was the same as it was in my trance—at least, until I reached his room, and then everything was different."

By now the Great House was in sight. The clouds were thickening and the breeze had picked up. A storm was brewing.

"Can you get into the west wing again?"

Maggie gave her sly look, "Yes, I disabled the lock so that I can come and go when I want."

"Good. We'll examine the room together. I've no doubt there's a reasonable explanation for it."

"Thanks Julia. I was hoping you'd offer to help. I'm sorry I lied to you. I should have confided in you in the first place."

"Why didn't you?" Julia asked.

Maggie considered for a moment. There wasn't an answer—only a feeling. "I think it was meant to be a secret."

* * *

Collinwood 1897

A fierce storm swept over Collinwood, rattling the windows of the venerable Great House, and littering its woods with broken tree branches. The new moon had rendered the night especially dark. Rachel found a moonless night more ominous than a full moon could ever be. She sat on the edge of Nora's bed trying to soothe the child to sleep.

"Do you think you can fall asleep now, Nora?" Rachel asked her young charge.

"I think so," Nora told her tentatively. "Maybe … if you leave the lamp lit."

Just then from beyond the window, came the loud crack of a tree branch splitting. Nora practically jumped into Rachel's arms. Rachel held the trembling child and whispered into her ear, "It's alright, Nora. It's just a storm. You're safe here."

"Times like this, I wish my mother were here," Nora cried plaintively. "I miss her so much."

Rachel stroked Nora's hair, "I know you do."

"Sometimes I think I might forget what she looked like."

"No, Nora. You'll always remember her."

"How do you know?" Nora asked, pulling back to look at Rachel.

"Because I still remember what my mother looked liked, and I lost her when I was even younger than you are." Rachel was caught off guard by the fleeting image of the dark-haired beauty that was her late mother.

"You do?"

"Of course I do. What's more, you're lucky. You still have your father."

"He's hardly ever here. Even when he is at home, he's always in Collinsport working," Nora complained.

Rachel could see it from the child's point of view, but from Edward's vantage point, Collinwood must be a physical manifestation of his disappointment in life. Even his own children must be a bitter reminder of his wife's betrayal. It was no wonder he kept them at arm's length.

"And you have your Aunt Judith. She loves you very much." Now, Rachel lay Nora down, and pulled the blankets over her.

"That's true," murmured the child, as sleep began to take her.

"And you have me," Rachel leaned over and gently kissed Nora's forehead. Nora's eyes closed. "Goodnight Nora." Rachel was always amazed by the rapidity with which children could pass from being awake to sleep. Too many nights, she wished it worked the same for her.

Rachel rose and turned the gas-lamp to its lowest setting. She would come by and extinguish it before she retired. But for now, it seemed a good precaution in case Nora woke again. With that, she gently closed the door and made her way downstairs to the drawing room.

* * *

When Quentin arrived in the drawing room, he found Judith alone doing needlework beside the fire on the davenport.

"Good evening Judith. May I pour you a brandy?" he asked with all the geniality he could muster.

She looked up from her work. "Thank you, yes."

"And where is Miss Drummond?" he asked. "I've grown accustomed to finding you two sitting together in the evening."

"Putting the children to bed. Nora was very upset by storm. I'm afraid it will take Rachel some time to settle her down."

"Yes, it's been ages since we've had a storm of this ferocity."

"I'll ask Dirk to check the grounds thoroughly tomorrow." A long pause ensued during which Quentin poured two glasses of brandy, handed one to Judith, and sat in the armchair next to the fire. Judith picked up the conversation again. "Perhaps I should write to Edward and ask him to come home."

"Because of a storm?"

"No, because he's been away an exceptionally long time. I'm concerned about Jamison and Nora."

"They seem well looked after," Quentin replied mildly.

"And then there's the cannery and the mill. Edward left the managers in charge, but..."

"I could go into Collinsport and speak with the managers," Quentin offered with uncharacteristic seriousness.

" _You_?"

"Yes—you know, show the Collins family flag. I could use the storm as an excuse, if you feel one is needed."

Judith was mystified and at a loss for a response. She clearly didn't know what to make of this change in her usually feckless brother.

"Excuse me," came Rachel's voice from the doorway. She stood there, with her wool shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, a book in her hand. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I didn't realize Mr. Collins was here." She turned to leave.

"Please join us," Quentin said, rising from his seat. "You look cold. Please," he offered her his seat by the fireplace.

Rachel's eyes sought Judith's. "Yes, Rachel, please join us." And then to Quentin, she added, "Pour Rachel a glass of brandy. It will warm her from the inside out."

Quentin gave Rachel the brandy, and then joined Judith on the davenport.

"Is Nora finally asleep?" Judith asked.

"Yes, she was unsettled by the storm, but she settled down eventually," Rachel responded. She took a sip of the brandy; its strong alcoholic aroma filled her nostrils. How long had it been since she'd partaken? She felt its heat work its way from her lips to her throat to her chest. She looked up to find Judith focused on her needlework, but Quentin's eyes fixed on her.

"We were just remarking that this is the worst storm in recent memory," Judith said.

Quentin said to Rachel, "More sonnets, Miss Drummond?"

Rachel glanced at the volume on her lap. "We've been reading a quite interesting account of regional life before the war for independence."

"I don't want to stand in the way of such an interesting pursuit," Quentin said with more characteristic sarcasm.

It was Judith who responded, but not before giving Quentin an expression that bespoke her disappointment at his return to his usual form. "As much as I'd enjoy it, I think I'll forego it this evening, Rachel, if you don't mind. Perhaps it's my anxiety about the storm," then she laughed, "or perhaps it's the brandy, but I'm suddenly feeling quite tired. I'm going to retire early."

She stood and Quentin followed suit. She turned to him and said, "I'll give some thought to what we discussed, and let you know it in the morning." And then to Rachel, "Goodnight Rachel. I hope Nora will be more herself tomorrow."

"I'm sure she will," Rachel responded. "Goodnight."

With that, Judith headed upstairs. Quentin took her place on the davenport near the fire.

They sat in companionable silence for a time—each sipping brandy, Quentin staring into the fire, Rachel worrying her lower lip between her teeth. It was Rachel who broke the silence. "I'm glad to see that you two have achieved a measure of rapprochement," she said, recalling the last time they were together in this room.

In the intervening weeks since that terrible night, she had seen little of Quentin. Everyone said that he spent most of his time at Evan Handley's. But there was some speculation among the household staff that he snuck off to see Beth in Collinsport. Mrs. Dunn, the housekeeper, put a stop to such speculation by pointedly reminding everyone within earshot that Beth had probably been let go because she had expectations above her station. The warning seemed directed at her and Elsie, the young maid. Looking at Elsie, Rachel felt certain, Mrs. Dunn need not have worried about that possibility. The girl was far too young, sallow in complexion, thin, and wanting for conversation to attract Quentin's attention. Rachel sighed aloud as accompaniment to her train of thought.

"Rapprochement is an interesting way to describe it," Quentin was saying, "but I did take some things to heart."

"Well, whatever the reason, I'm glad of it. I hated seeing you two genuinely at odds. I mean, I know how you enjoy teasing her, and it makes her angry, but that night was something else altogether."

"You're a keen observer, Rachel," he observed mildly.

"I'm sorry," she blushed. "I shouldn't have spoken so freely."

He leaned forward, and perched on the edge of the couch, "On the contrary, I hope you'll always speak freely with me." Then he slipped back on his usual persona. He finished his brandy in one large gulp. "I'm having another," he announced as he headed to the decanter. "May I freshen yours?" he asked. She offered him a shy, somewhat guarded smile. He raised an eyebrow in response, "Come on Rachel. Live a little."

"Well, just this once, and only because Miss Collins offered it to me in the first place," Rachel said.

"Rachel, are you always so punctilious?"

She gave him a sly smile that suggested perhaps not, but said only, "I value my position here." Quentin poured a small portion in her glass, and refilled his own. He set the decanter on the side-table, and resumed his seat across from her. She took a small sip, and closed her eyes momentarily as it went down. When she opened them, Quentin was watching her closely. "It's a rare treat for me," she told him.

He said nothing, but smiled, taking satisfaction in her evident enjoyment of her "rare treat."

By now, the wind had died down, and given way to a steady rain. A knock at the door rang out above the patter of raindrops on the leaves outside.

"It could only be Cousin Barnabas," Quentin said as he rose and went to answer the door. "Look who's here," he announced as he showed Barnabas into the drawing room, sharing a knowing smile with Rachel.

"Miss Drummond," Barnabas bowed formally to her.

"Good evening, Mr. Collins."

"Barnabas, Rachel and I are having a nightcap. Would you care to join us?"

A hint of disapproval crossed Barnabas's face. "No, thank you. I'll not impose. I was actually hoping to have a word with Judith, if she's available."

"I'm sorry to disappoint, but Judith went up early this evening."

"I hope she's not unwell," Barnabas inquired politely.

"No, nothing like that. I think she just preferred to ride out the storm in the privacy of her apartment. Speaking of the storm, not that we're not always pleased to see you, but isn't it a rather unpleasant night to be out and about?" Quentin asked, again bestowing a secret smile on Rachel. Her eyes glowed warm with firelight, but her face was impassive.

"I was in Collinsport, and thus passing anyway on my way back to the Old House. But I fear I've taken more of your time than I intended. Please let Judith know that I stopped by." And then turning to Rachel, "It's always a pleasure to see you Miss Drummond," though his countenance and his expression belied his words. His disappointment in finding her thus was evident.

"Goodnight, Mr. Collins." She felt sad for the strange, baffling man.

"I'll show you out," Quentin said jovially, seemingly oblivious to the sentiments of his companions.

"No need," Barnabas said, bowing again slightly and taking his leave.

Quentin resumed his seat directly across from Rachel. "You know, I believe Cousin Barnabas is quite in love with you." She blushed deeply. "So, it's true," he teased her.

"I've done nothing to encourage him—in fact, just the opposite." She went on to recount to him, in brief, how Barnabas had pressed her to accept Josette's music box.

"Rachel has a suitor," he said in a singsong teasing voice.

"Quentin! Stop it. You're worse than Nora and Jamison. Besides, that isn't fair to your cousin. And …"

"And?" Quentin asked.

"And I feel sorry for him. He's such an odd man. Have you ever noticed how he thinks nothing of coming by so late? He told me once that he's a night owl, and prefers the evening to daytime, but it's odd to say the least."

"Have you given as much thought to _my_ comings and goings?" Quentin resumed his teasing. "Because I'm in danger of becoming quite jealous of the attention you pay to Barnabas."

Rachel cocked her head to one side, and raised an eyebrow at him. She took a final sip of brandy, and went to place her empty glass on the liquor cabinet. "I should go up and check on Nora," she announced, and turned to find him at her side.

"I'll escort you as far as Nora's room then, if I may."

"There's no need—really," she smiled warmly at him.

"No, but I'd like to, just the same."

* * *

The following morning, Judith was surprised to find Quentin already in the family dining room when she arrived. He was dressed in a dark tweed suit, with a formal long jacket.

"Good morning Judith. Coffee?"

"Thank you, Quentin," she said as she went to the sideboard to get her breakfast.

Quentin filled two cups with coffee from the urn that stood at the end of the sideboard. He placed them on the table and went to get his own breakfast. He followed close behind Judith as she opened the covered dishes to reveal sliced ham and bacon, scrambled eggs, and the cook's own bread, toasted and spread with butter.

Once seated at the table, Quentin began, "So, have you thought anymore about my offer?"

"To visit the cannery and the mill? Yes, I have and I think it's a good idea," she said with a tentative edge to her voice.

"Don't worry Judith. I'm capable of behaving appropriately for a day."

"I'm sure you are. When will you leave?"

"Immediately after breakfast," he replied.

"Did you know that Beth is still staying at the Collinsport Inn? Do you plan to see her while you're in town?" she asked with a hint of accusation in her voice.

"No, I didn't know—and no, I don't plan to see her. Really, had I wanted to see her, I could have gone at any time. At any rate, she made it clear when she left that _she_ has no interest in seeing _me_."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Clearly. Let me state it explicitly—the reason—the _only_ reason—I'm going to Collinsport today is to visit the family businesses and make sure the managers know that it is still a _Collins_ family business."

* * *

Later that afternoon, Rachel and Nora were in the drawing room. Jamison and Nora were playing hide and seek in the house. Rachel decided it was best to keep them indoors, as the storm had brought down many tree branches, and the woods were thick with mud. Presently, Nora was at Rachel's elbow complaining that hide and seek was unfair, that she could never find Jamison, and it was stupid and she hated it. Rachel sighed and prepared to join the search for Jamison, rather than correcting their arithmetic assignments from the morning. "Alright Nora. You win. I'll help you look for Jamison." Nora's face brightened.

There was a knock at the door. "Wait here," she said to the child, and then headed across the foyer to open the door. "Beth? This is a surprise." Rachel smiled, and held the door open.

In that brief moment of greeting, Rachel took in Beth with her eyes. She was looking particularly pert—wearing her royal blue dress, topped by a short wool cape. Rachel had of course seen the outfit before, but perhaps because she carried a purse as one would for visiting, or perhaps it was her bearing, but Beth looked different—wonderful. She'd always been a beautiful woman. Rachel had noted it many times. Beth's features were cool in keeping with her blond hair, and she always carried herself upright and tall. Only now did Rachel think about the contrast between them. Rachel owned so few nice dresses, and working with the children all day, it was best to be practical. So today she wore her favorite gray skirt, and a button-front blouse with a faint floral print that she bought in Collinsport. She wondered how it was that Beth, as servant of the house, had managed to dress as she did, and indeed, carry herself as she did.

"Is _Judith_ in?" Beth asked with a haughty air that caught Rachel off-guard.

"She's in the study. I'll let her know you're here," Rachel told her.

"Don't bother. I know the way," was Beth's brusque reply as she brushed past Rachel and headed to the study.

Rachel followed in her wake, down the short corridor that led to the study. Beth didn't even knock; she just opened the door and barged in. Judith sat working on correspondence at her desk. Startled by the intrusion, she looked up in surprise.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Collins," Rachel began.

"Never mind, Rachel," Judith said mildly. "Clearly, Beth needs to speak with me urgently, but thank you for trying to announce her."

"I'll leave you then," Rachel said with a half question in her voice, but she closed the door and headed back to Nora.

When Rachel was gone, Judith stood and faced Beth. "Well? I'd heard you were still in Collinsport. You'd have been better off taking the position in Boston, than squandering your earnings at the Collinsport Inn," Judith's voice was extra-imperious, reflecting her anger at being interrupted in this way.

"It's no longer your concern how spend my earnings or my time," Beth shot back. "And staying at the Inn has afforded me the time I needed to think about my future options." She drew herself to her fullest height. "I don't think I'm suited to be a housekeeper, and I certainly have no intention of going as far as Boston. No, it suits me to stay closer to Collinsport, and it suits me to be in charge of my own life. So, I've come to ask for the money to purchase a shop in Bangor."

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" was Judith's response.

"No, I've taken stock of my assets, including some valuable information I know that you would prefer that others not know." Beth's eyes flashed. She wore on her sleeve her sense of having at last the upper hand on the mighty Judith Collins.

"And what does that mean?" Judith demanded angrily.

"Quentin, or better still, Magda, might be interested to learn the identity of a certain foundling being raised by the Jennings family."

Judith's face turned scarlet, "You wouldn't dare. What would you stand to gain by doing such a thing?"

"Nothing," Beth responded matter-of-factly. "But the question is what do you stand to lose as a result—Quentin, for one, and control of that child for another, and of course, and most important to you, I think, the Collins family reputation."

"If I give you this money, you'll move to Bangor, and never return to Collinwood?"

"I have no desire to come here ever again. I do, on the other hand, intend to see the child from time to time—to help Mrs. Jennings. I've seen him every week, watched him grow. No woman with _maternal_ feelings could help taking an interest in his wellbeing."

Judith paced to the window. She looked out and appeared to be considering her options. She drew her shoulders back and folded her arms across her chest. She said nothing for several long moments. When she turned back to face Beth, her face was impassive. "I'll have Evan Handley contact you tomorrow to negotiate the terms and make the payment."

"Thank you, Judith. It's a wise decision," Beth said to bring the conversation to a close. She turned to leave.

"Oh, and Beth," Judith stopped her, and held her with a withering look. "No matter how things work out for you in Bangor, this will be the only time you get to play this card. I'll not be forthcoming in the future." In a few brisk steps, she pushed past Beth and opened to door to the study. "You know the way out."

* * *

Beth walked up the Collinwood drive, allowing her feet to strike heavily. The compressed gravel crunched loudly under her lace-up boots. She'd gotten what she came for, and yet, once again, Judith Collins had put her in her place. Her throat constricted as she forced down tears and her desire to cry. That could wait until she returned to the inn. For now, it was enough that she was done—done with Collinwood, done with the Collins family. Soon she would be her own person. She'd be in charge of her own life for the first time in her life.

The gravel crunched behind her. She felt a hand on her shoulder. Her heart pounded wildly as she turned back. "Dirk! You scared me half to death."

"Oh, sorry. Didn't you hear me call to you?" he said. "I was in the woods surveying the damage from the storm when I saw you passing. I called your name," he added weakly.

"I guess my mind was somewhere else. How've you been? How's the arm?"

"A little better everyday. I mean, it still hurts sometimes, but Dr. Woodard says that's to be expected. I'm glad that banshee got what she deserved," he said bitterly.

"It wasn't really her fault. She'd gone mad."

"She belonged in an asylum."

"Well," Beth began, "I really should be getting back to town."

"Yeah, with all of these animal attacks, a woman shouldn't be out after dark."

Beth actually laughed. It was early yet. "I don't walk that slowly, Dirk. There are still a few hours of daylight left."

"Of course," he stammered. "May I walk you as far as the Collinsport Road?"

Beth found she liked this side of Dirk better than the one she usually saw at Collinwood. Perhaps, everything would seem better to her now that she was free of the Collins family. She had been holding out hope that Quentin would fall in love with her someday. With that hope behind her, perhaps she should be open to falling in love again—if not with Dirk, perhaps with someone suitable in Bangor. In any case, what harm would it do to be friendly to Dirk? While it was true that he would never be as handsome or charming as Quentin, he was still good looking and could be good company when he put his mind to it.

"Thank you, Dirk. I'd like that."

With that, they headed down the long drive toward the Collinsport Road.


	11. Chapter 11

In the year 1897, the residents of the Great House measure the passage of time, by turns, in increments defined by sinister, deadly deeds, and then by quiet, calm interludes of everyday life.

Collinwood 1897

Evan Handley was waiting for Judith when she entered the study following breakfast. He sat in the armchair perusing the local newspaper, when the door opened and Judith entered. "I see you've been into Collinsport," Judith said.

It was the third time she'd seen him in less than a week. He set aside the paper and stood at once. "Good morning, Judith," he greeted her.

"Evan, do you have news for me?" Judith swept in and took a seat at her desk.

Evan resumed his seat. "I do. I believe Beth and I have come to terms, however …" He let it dangle in the air.

"However?" she asked with a hint of impatience.

"However, she wants more than you wanted to spend."

"Well, I wanted to spend nothing," she said in frustration.

"She wants enough to purchase the lease on the store and its stock, and she wants something to buy her silence."

Judith sighed deeply. Her fingers drummed impatiently on the desk while she considered.

Evan sat quietly as she thought. Then he broke into her thoughts, "Did you know that she and Dirk are … _friendly_ ," he finally decided to call it.

"Dirk?" She considered a moment. "I shouldn't be surprised. Of course, she'll need someone to replace my brother. What other suitable men does she know?"

Evan cleared his throat.

"You, Evan?" Her voice communicated her incredulity. "I thought you preferred women of substance … certainly women of more _pecuniary_ substance."

"Really Judith, why must you taunt me this way? If a woman like you stooped to have me, I'd never look at a woman like Beth."

Judith laughed heartily. "Evan, do you ever give up? I've told you time and again, I'm well past the age of wanting to make room in my life for a man, and if I was going to, I would choose more wisely than my ne'er-do-well brother's close friend."

"You wound me Judith and you could do far worse than me," he countered good-naturedly.

"Perhaps, but …" She stood and paced to the window and looked out. "Let's get back to the task at hand, shall we?"

"Which is what exactly?"

"Dirk."

"Why are you so concerned about this groundskeeper and his relationship with Beth? You aren't?" He waved a hand to dismiss the thought.

"Of course not!" She was serious now. "Dirk is ambitious and greedy. And I wonder if we might not turn that to our advantage. He knows a great deal more than I like. We need to separate him from Beth, and ensure that he stays loyal to me, and keeps his mouth shut." She returned to the desk and sat.

"So what should I tell Beth?" he ventured tentatively. In his long acquaintance with Judith, he'd seen her steely resolve before. Beth was in over her head.

"Tell her we have an agreement, and that I'll have the money for her in a day or two."

"Very well, Judith." He rose and moved to the door of the study. He turned back to her. "Have you considered that it might be money well-spent to get her away from your family?"

"I have," Judith told him, her face impassive.

* * *

Evan walked out of the study and into the foyer of the Great House. He practically ran into Quentin. "Quentin! You're up early," Evan began.

"I'm turning over a new leaf," Quentin replied with characteristic humor.

Evan's raised eyebrow communicated his skepticism. "Well, in any case, I'm glad. I was hoping to have a private word with you."

"Of course, I was just on my way to breakfast. Care to join me?"

"No, thank you."

"I'll make up a tray. We can talk in my rooms."

Evan accompanied Quentin into the family dining room. Mrs. O'Neill, the cook, was refilling the covered dish of buttered toast. "Good morning, O'Neill," Quentin greeted her with a charming smile.

"Good morning, Mr. Quentin. It's good to see you at breakfast again. It's been too long," she responded, with lilt in her voice.

"It's your excellent brown bread, O'Neill, that brought me back."

Evan thought the older woman actually blushed. "Mr. Quentin, I'm so glad you like it," O'Neill replied, wiping her hands on her apron.

Quentin asked her, "Is there a tray handy? I'd like to take breakfast in my rooms."

"Of course, Mr. Quentin." She set about piling a plate high with breakfast food. She took a tray from the sideboard cupboard, and arranged his breakfast on the tray with a napkin and cutlery. She added a cup of coffee. He waved her off when she offered sugar and milk.

"Thank you, O'Neill," Quentin said as he took the tray from her. She beamed as she made her way from the dining room, with her slow arthritic gait.

A few moments later, Quentin sat down to breakfast in the sitting room of his apartment. Evan joined him at the table. "If you spend anymore time at Collinwood, Evan, Judith will have to give you an office here. What brings you here three times in less than a week?"

"Business for Judith." When Quentin gave him an inquisitive look, he added, "You know I'm not at liberty to say."

"Of course not. Professional ethics, etcetera, etcetera." Changing the subject, Quentin went on, "My research has been fruitless, Evan. I hope you have better news for me."

"The news is mixed. I have a lead in New York City. I think I found Magda and Sandor's home community, and thus, their gypsy king. He might have knowledge of this curse, or even be able to bring pressure on Magda to lift the curse, but …"

"But?"

"But I have nothing to bribe him with. Why should he help us?"

"So what's your plan?"

"To go there, meet with him, find out what he knows, and what he'd want to help us."

"When do you leave?"

"As soon as my business for Judith is finalized."

Quentin dropped his fork, wiped his mouth, and threw his napkin onto his plate. "Surely my situation is more pressing."

"Perhaps Quentin, but Judith's business is remunerative. Yours, I'm doing simply for my own interest in these," he waved his hand, "compelling phenomena," he concluded.

Quentin stood and paced away from the table, "Evan, the full moon is only a week away." His voice trembled with fear and urgency.

"I know, Quentin. I know. I plan to be back in time to cast the spell of the pentagram."

"Evan, last time, I …"

Evan concluded soberly, "I know."

* * *

Judith was waiting for Dirk in the Collinwood study, as darkness set in. She had slipped a note under his door asking him to meet her there after servants' dinner. The note told him that she had important business to discuss.

Some would mistake the young man's obsequious attention to her as infatuation. But Judith recognized it for what it was—an infatuation with power and status. Every time she favored him with a compliment or kind word, she gave him hope. Each time she dressed him down, or reminded him of his place, she knew she fed his resentment. It had always been a fine line to tread, as it always was with one's servants. But now, given what he knew about her family—the death of her sister-in-law at the hands of her brother—she knew she needed to take steps to ensure his loyalty, or at least, his silence.

When the young groundskeeper arrived, he had clearly taken a few moments to smarten himself up. His boots were clean and his hair was brushed. His still-healing arm hung loose at his side, as though moving it with purpose wasn't worth the effort.

Judith invited him to sit—something she never did. He was taken aback, and stood awkwardly for a moment contemplating her invitation. Then he lowered himself into the chair, sitting bolt upright lest he seem more comfortable than she intended.

She began, "I see you're still favoring the arm."

He looked down at the arm hanging limply in his lap. "I wish it would favor me from time-to-time," he said sadly. "But Dr. Woodard says I'm lucky just the same. He says if the blade had nicked the bone, there's a good chance I'd have blood poisoning. I remind myself of that when it throbs with pain, or is too stiff to move."

Judith noted no hint of bitterness as he said this, but she knew it must not be far beneath the surface. "I've been remiss in not having this conversation sooner. I should have realized sooner how difficult the work must be for you, or perhaps _acknowledged_ it sooner is more to the point. I can see how difficult it must be for you to do your job now."

With Beth's dismissal in mind, he said, "I can still work, Miss Collins."

"I know you can, Dirk. But I'm sure there are things that would be easier to manage, if … well, what I am thinking is, what if you had a man to work under you? Perhaps, one of the young men from Collinsport that helped you after the storm?"

"Then, what would I do?"

"You'd be more of the steward. Running the estate has been more than a handful, especially with Edward so often away. I could use your help managing the property, the stable and livery, and a number of the cottages and houses on the property have fallen into disrepair. It would be your responsibility to see to all of these things."

"I see," he said.

"If you need time to consider," she began.

"No. There's no need. I want to stay on here, and I appreciate the help," was his response.

"And I appreciate your _loyalty_. Some would have tried to turn the situation to their advantage."

"You mean Beth?" he said almost involuntarily.

"Yes, and now she's to settle in Bangor. I had hoped she'd go to Boston or New York, anywhere to get a fresh start, but I believe she still has hope of my brother's attention." She put a hand to her mouth. "I fear I've said too much," she said disingenuously. Then she resumed her mistress of the manor mien. "The first thing I'd like you to attend to as steward is renovating the groundskeeper's cottage. It's long overdue for attention. When it's done, it will be your home, if you like."

The young man brightened. So much so, Judith worried that the poison she tried to introduce into his fledgling relationship with Beth might be overlooked. "Thank you, Miss Collins." Were there tears in the young man's eyes? Was it merely a moment of vulnerability, or had she touched something deeper in him? Only time would tell.

* * *

Two days later, Beth stood on the doorstep of the house that was once her home—the Great House at Collinwood. She was no longer relegated to entering through the servants' entrance. She now walked right up to the front door, and waited for someone to admit her, as she had done for others most of her life. She allowed herself a moment to feel triumphant. She had gone toe-to-toe with Judith Collins, and today she would walk away with a bank draft to finance her dreams, and a concession that would enable her to see the child and be a part of his life, if she chose to be.

Several moments after she knocked, Elsie opened the door to her. It was now late afternoon. She had intended to arrive earlier in the day, but the more she thought about it, the more it suited her to have Judith wait for her. So she had taken her time, finally arriving late.

It was to be her final visit. She would take the bank draft and never return to Collinwood. So she waited while Elsie went to announce her arrival to Judith. The sound of voices in the drawing room drew her towards its doors. She paused and listened. Nora was complaining as usual.

"It's not fair," Nora was saying.

And Jamison was being his typical self as well. "You only say that because you never win."

"That's because it's two against one. Uncle Quentin always helps you."

Rachel's voice broke into their bickering. "That's enough you two. No one is helping anyone."

"What if I help _you_ , Nora?" It was Quentin who spoke, and Beth felt flushed in spite of herself.

"That's still not fair," Nora said.

"Well, what if I help you and Miss Drummond helps Jamison? Is that fair?" her uncle asked.

"Ahem," Judith cleared her throat loudly to pull Beth's attention away from the drawing room. Beth's cheeks colored like a schoolgirl caught misbehaving. "I'll see you in the study now," Judith announced with characteristic imperiousness.

Beth was surprised by how quickly their transaction was completed after all of the back and forth negotiations with Evan Handley. Judith had led her to the study. She sat and Judith handed her an envelope containing the bank draft.

After so many years as a member of the Collins household, it came to an end with finality in a matter of moments. Judith punctuated it by reminding Beth that the payment marked the end of their acquaintance. "There will be no more money forthcoming—I want that clearly understood," Judith told her.

"That suits me as well," Beth responded with as much dignity as she could muster, even as she accepted her ill-gotten gains. She left the study, crossed the foyer, and left Collinwood for the final time.

* * *

Just outside the door of the Great House, she saw Dirk coming toward her up the lane that led to the servants' entrance. He fixed her with his eyes, smiled, and waved. She returned his wave in acknowledgement, but her eyes were cold and her face impassive.

"Elsie told us you were here," he began as he approached her.

"Then she has a lot to learn," was Beth's curt reply. She continued toward the drive, as Dirk fell into step beside her.

"May I walk you to the Collinsport road? It'll be dark soon, and I wish I could walk you back to town, but Miss Collins …"

"I'm not heading back to town," Beth told him.

"Oh, where are heading then?" Dirk's face was a mixture of wounded pride and anger. "Maybe to meet Quentin Collins?"

Beth stopped, and turned to him, "I guess you think because people say we're stepping out together that you have the right to be jealous. Well, think again, Dirk. For the first time in my life, I don't have to answer to anyone—not my father, not Judith Collins, and certainly not you. Make no mistake, I enjoy your company well enough, but not enough to be told what to do." She paused.

"I'm sorry, Beth. I didn't mean to …"

"But you did. And if you must know, no I'm not going to meet Quentin, but if I were it would be no concern of yours. I want to walk the grounds of Collinwood one last time, because I don't intend to come back."

"Then at least let me walk with you," he said sheepishly.

"No, thank you."

"May I come to see you tomorrow?" he asked.

"Dirk, let me see if I can make you understand. I don't want to see you tomorrow. In fact, I don't want to see you anymore." She was angry but restrained. "I'm moving to Bangor. And when I do, I'm leaving Collinwood and Collinsport behind, including you."

"Then why aren't you going to Boston or New York, where you can _really_ leave Collinwood behind? Is it because Quentin will still be nearby?" Dirk shook his head. "Miss Judith was right."

"I should have known." Beth shot back, openly angry now. "As this will be the last time I speak to you, let me be clear, I'm done with the Collins family, including Quentin, the same way I'm done with you. My reasons for settling in Bangor are just that— _my_ reasons. I no longer have to explain myself to Judith, or Quentin, or you. I'm my own person now. You should try it some time, but I think secretly you enjoy being Judith's lapdog. What's more, it suits you." With that, she stomped down the lane, and turned onto a path through the woods, leaving Dirk shaking with anger and shattered pride.

* * *

Barnabas Collins felt unmoored from the purpose that brought him to 1897; he felt unmoored from time itself. He had come to 1897 to help his friend and protégé in 1968. He had come without a plan; he had come not knowing what to expect or what he would find. He had turned to Angelique when all other options had failed him, but in her inimical style, she had helped him only so far. Now he was marooned in another time.

He rose this evening, as he did every evening, to be greeted by the dull, useless Sandor, and his hostile, grieving wife, Magda. He missed his true friend Julia Hoffman, more than ever. If Julia were there, she would help him think through this puzzle. In his own time, he often took her for granted—sometimes to the point of abusing their friendship. While he had passion for a task, Julia brought rationality to it.

He had tried to approach it, as he believed Julia would. He knew that the curse had been triggered, because all of Collinsport buzzed with the tale of an animal attack on the Collinwood estate. The attack had claimed the life an innocent schoolteacher. It was different, they said, from the ones in town—more violent and bloody. And of course, Barnabas knew what they did not, that he was responsible for the attacks in town, and the newly unleashed werewolf was responsible for the Collinwood attack. With the full moon but a few nights away, it was his chance to find out the identity of the creature, and its origin. Julia would remind him that he had the advantage, in that he knew how the curse worked and how to stop the creature. If Julia were there, she would help him focus on the task that brought there.

What he hadn't counted on when he'd come to this time, in addition to missing Julia, was how the bloodlust, coupled with loneliness, would cloud his judgment and cripple his reason. In 1968, having achieved a cure, he no longer woke each day with the pangs of hunger that only blood would satisfy. And being able to walk in the daylight had broadened his world. And now, back in 1897, once again a nightwalker, once again a predator, he was filled with loathing for his vampire-self.

When he first met the governess, Rachel Drummond, he'd fallen prey to a curse of a different sort. Her resemblance to his first love, Josette, had driven him to make advances toward her. She distracted him from his purpose for being in 1897 in the first place. She had also provided a distraction from the loneliness he felt in this time. In his own time of 1795, he had his family. In 1968, he had reconnected with the Collins family, and found friendship with Julia, and loyalty from Willie. Here, he had two unwilling, surly servants, and a tenuous connection to the Collins family of this era. He had yet to find his place among them.

But then when he saw Rachel and Quentin together, he had a realization. He was, and would always be, an outsider in this time. It was not intentional on their part—at least, not on hers. She had always been kind—kind, but firm in rejecting his advances. She had no particular predilection for the past. Indeed, Josette's beloved music box was far from being an antique in 1897. To Rachel, it must seem nothing more than old-fashioned. Quentin was not as kind. He saw Barnabas as an interloper at best, or worse as a rival for the attention, if not affection, of Rachel Drummond.

As he rose from his coffin this evening, he knew he would seek out blood as a salve to his unhappy mood. The blood would in the short term renew him. He would feel alive again, remember his purpose again, and reclaim his vampire nature. He would feel powerful once more. It would sustain him for a few days or a week, until the next time he rose feeling dissipated and alone.

Tonight was such a night. He knew he would find himself searching the town that was now alert to the presence of a predator in its midst. Only the most desperate sorts now walked its streets after dark. Yet, he always found one. There was always one desperate enough, or inebriated enough, or careless enough. He didn't need the violence employed by a werewolf. He stripped his victims of their will, and they went willing with him—to a dark corner of the docks, or a narrow lane than ran parallel to the town's main street. There were dark corners and recesses aplenty if one truly needed one.

The old Barnabas, he told himself, would by now have sought such a fate for Rachel—robbing her of her will, supplanting the things that made her uniquely Rachel with those of another. But knowing what he knew now, he would not. Having lived as a human again, he wanted human love and genuine affection. Having her would mean nothing, if she did not come to him willingly. So instead, he would seek something lesser tonight.

Taking his caped coat, and wolf-head cane, he bade his servants goodnight. Magda could not be bothered to respond, but the ever guilt-ridden Sandor tried to persuade him not to go. He pleaded with the vampire not to go into town tonight—to stay in or go to Collinwood instead. Magda mocked him, saying, "Let him go. What do we care for the pathetic soul he will take tonight? No one gave a care for Jehna, eh?"

And so, Barnabas left the Old House, and set out through the woods toward Collinsport. A nearly full moon provided ample illumination in the woods. He enjoyed nighttime strolls. They were one of the few pleasures that transcended his nature whether human or vampire. He could have employed the expediency of becoming a bat, and arrived much sooner, but he loved the woods at night. Tonight he knew he would find solace in the rhythm of the sea, the crash of waves on the rocks, and the keening of seabirds. So he headed down a path that led toward the bluffs just beyond the woods, and ultimately to Widows' Hill. Here was the perfect backdrop for his morose soul, for here it was that his own Josette met her fate.

Even without the heightened senses of the bat, he realized he was not alone. There was a figure just beyond the boundary of the woods, moving quickly down the path toward Widows' Hill. If he quickened his pace, he could easily overtake her. Indeed, from the silhouette he knew it to be a woman. Given everything, why would a woman be here now after sunset?

He wanted to believe that his object in pursuing her was to ensure that she, however foolish she may be, was safely escorted back to town. He appealed to his better nature to make it so.

As his pace quickened, his footfall became louder. Now, she became aware of his presence and quickened her pace. Soon she was clear of the woods on the path that skirted the bluffs. By the time he was poised to overtake her, she would be at the top of that infamous bluff. Now she turned and glanced back over her shoulder. He saw blond hair reflected in the moonlight. _Angelique_ , he thought. But why would she run—perhaps as a taunt.

Transforming into a bat, he made up the ground very quickly, and arrived within a few yards of her. "Angelique?" he cried out above the roar of the waves. Now the woman stopped and turned to face him. "Miss Chavez?"

"Mr. Collins. You gave me such a fright."

"It's no wonder. What are you doing in the woods alone at night?"

Beth recovered herself, and said aloud though mostly to herself, "I shouldn't have panicked. The full moon is still a day or two away."

"What? What did you say?"

"Nothing. I don't know why I said that."

He reached for her suddenly, grabbing her by the arm. In the process, her small handbag tumbled to the ground. "What did you mean?" His eyes bored into hers. But now, even as he was so close to finding the answer, the bloodlust reared up and took him.

"The wolf," she began weakly, but his fangs were already piercing the soft flesh of her neck. He meant only to take enough to secure her in his thrall, but now he found it impossible to stop. He hungrily attacked the vein that pulsed in her neck. He fed and fed and fed, until he felt his soul might finally be replenished. He lost himself completely, lost sight of everything except the taste of blood and the nourishment it provided. When he felt completely sated, he released her. Like the many others who met this fate, her eyes were blank. She rocked backward on her heels, staggered, and fell to the rocks below.


	12. Chapter 12

Collinwood 1897

Daybreak at the Great House at Collinwood brings light but not illumination. For the night led one young woman to a cruel fate, and the morning once again brings darkness to the doorstep of the ill-fated Collins family.

Quentin was the first of the household to be up and dressed. It was an unheard of turn of events. Not long after the sun rose, he dressed and went to use the only telephone in the house in the drawing room. He tapped on the receiver and asked to be connected to Evan Handley. He waited for what seemed a very long time, but was in fact only a few moments. It was Evan's housekeeper who finally answered, not the man himself. The attorney was still away in New York on business. With the full moon later that day, it was a blow. But it was to be only the first blow that day.

Quentin slammed down the handset much harder than he'd intended. "Good heavens, Quentin. What could be wrong so early in the morning?" came Judith's voice from behind him.

"I've been waiting to hear from Evan on a business matter. I've just learned that he's in New York and not expected back today."

Judith eyed him narrowly, but left unspoken her curiosity about his business affairs with Evan. Instead she said, "Well it must be important indeed for you to be up at this hour."

"Clearly," he murmured. For a moment, his mind was distracted, but he rallied enough to ask, "And you? This is early even for you, my dear sister."

"I had an unsettled night, and woke before the sun was up. I decided I might as well get on with the day."

"I'll let O'Neill know that breakfast will be early today," he told her with more amiability than he felt.

"There's no need. I've already spoken to her. It should ready in the dining room by now."

They ate in companionable silence, which was odd between the two. Quentin's mind was fully occupied with the coming full moon. He had counted on Evan's return. Even if he returned without hope of a cure, he could cast the spell of the pentagram, and together they could hope that it would contain the beast once again.

But now that he knew Evan would not return by moonrise, growing depression was setting in. He looked at what was ahead in his life. Month after month, full moon after full moon, he would be at the mercy of others, and worse, at the mercy of the beast. How many times would the beast escape containment? How many more mornings would he wake to find himself covered blood? How many more times would he have to hear reports of the beast's victims? And what if there was no cure? What if months went by, years went by, and the cure eluded him? What then?

Elsie interrupted their breakfast. She gave a short knock before entering the dining room. "I'm sorry to disturb you," she began in her thin, unassuming voice. "The sheriff is in the foyer, Miss Collins. He'd like a word with you—and Mr. Collins," she added.

"Did he say what he wants?" Judith asked, already knowing the answer.

"No, Miss—only that it's important."

Judith was already on her feet. Wiping her mouth, she tossed her napkin onto the table, and waited as Quentin gulped down the remainder of his coffee.

Together they made their way back to the foyer, just outside of the drawing room. There they found the sheriff waiting with an air of impatience. He removed his hat the moment he saw her approach. He knew that deference was due to the benefactress whose family gave its name to the town that employed him.

"Miss Collins. Mr. Collins. May I have a private word with you?"

"Of course, Sheriff. Please come into the drawing room."

He followed her in, while Quentin closed the doors behind them. Judith offered the sheriff a seat in the armchair; the siblings sat side-by-side on the davenport.

"I'll come straight to the reason for my visit. Beth Chavez was found dead this morning. One of the boats going out this morning saw a body on the rocks below Widows' Hill. They came back into port to report it."

Quentin's face drained of color, but Judith maintained her countenance and asked, "Are you sure it's Beth?"

"Aye. I found her bag at the top of bluff. This was in it." The sheriff reached into his coat pocket and produced an envelope that Judith recognized at once. He opened it and drew out the bank draft. "It's a bank draft drawn on a Collins account."

Quentin looked at his sister. Her expression didn't change, but there was emotion in her voice. "It was seed money for a shop in Bangor. She planned to move there and start over. I can't believe she's dead. Do you know how it happened?"

Now the reality sunk in—Quentin went to the fireplace, and stood with his back to them.

"Most likely an accident, but with all of the strange goings on, I can't say for sure. You don't think she would …" He let the unasked question hang in the air.

"No, I don't," Judith told him firmly.

When Quentin turned back to face them, there were tears in his eyes, "She had no family. We'll take care of the burial."

"Of course we will," Judith added.

"I'm afraid we've not recovered her body yet. The descent is too steep and treacherous from above. It's possible we can hire a crew to try at low tide." The sheriff stood. "I'm sorry to bring you more bad news, Miss Collins."

"As I am to receive it, Sheriff. But I appreciate you coming personally to tell us." Judith, ever the lady of the manor, walked the sheriff to the door.

Once there, the sheriff asked, "Could you or Mr. Collins come into town later to take charge of the arrangements?"

"Under the circumstances, I'll come personally. Thank you for coming." Then she returned to her brother in the drawing room. Quentin had not moved, but the tears were gone and the color was returning to his face. "Are you alright? I know you had feelings for her."

"It's a shock, that's all. Beth knew this area as well as anyone. It's hard to believe she fell to her death accidentally."

"Are you suggesting she took her own life?"

"I'm not suggesting anything. I just," he spread his hands in a gesture of frustration, "I don't understand."

"Perhaps we never will. Widows' Hill has long been a place that kept its own secrets." She went on in a more pragmatic vein, "I'll gather the staff and inform them, and of course, break the news to Jamison and Nora. Then I'll go into Collinsport to coordinate the recovery and burial. There's no need for you to be involved."

"Thank you Judith. It's a more difficult day for me than you can imagine." His face was serious and calm. "I want you know that even though we're very different, and don't always see eye-to-eye on things, I love you." He went to her, and surprised her with a lingering hug. Then he released her and headed upstairs to his rooms, leaving a very confused Judith in his wake.

* * *

A pall was cast over the Great House as news of Beth's death was disseminated throughout the house. Elsie took it hard, openly weeping, and Dirk began pacing in nervous agitation even before Judith had finished delivering the news. He wanted to speak with her, to question her about the circumstances, but one look from her silenced him. He turned away and continued to pace.

Before heading upstairs to the schoolroom to speak with Rachel, Judith went to the study to compose a note to her brother Edward entreating him to return home. She knew he would be staying at his club in Boston; even if he'd found the female companionship he'd gone there to find, the club would be his base. She directed the brief letter there, and would post it when she went into town.

Then Judith headed upstairs to the schoolroom. She found Rachel there already hard at work, as she always was this time of day. Rachel rose early, washed and dressed. Then she woke the children, and while they washed and dressed, she prepared the day's lessons. When Jamison and Nora were ready, the three of them went down to breakfast. After breakfast, the day's lessons began.

Judith knocked briefly then entered to find Rachel sitting at the small teacher's desk at one end of the room. Rachel stood at once. She could tell from Judith's demeanor and the very fact of her being there at that hour that something was wrong.

Judith broke the news swiftly and without emotion or detail. By now, it was a well-rehearsed tale. Rachel resumed her seat with the shock of it. It was certainly not that she and Beth were close—they were not, far from it. But it was the notion that someone you saw day in and day out for so long was suddenly and irrevocably gone. She wanted to pepper Judith with questions about how and when it happened, but she knew it must be unwelcome at the moment. She knew too that before long the house, indeed the entire town would be abuzz with the details. Judith had said simply, that Beth had been found dead and it appeared to be an accident.

"I'll join you for breakfast, and break the news to Jamison and Nora then. I've no doubt that Jamison will be fine, but Nora is, well, sensitive." Judith was quiet for a moment, and Rachel waited while the older woman gathered her thoughts. "I have a favor to ask."

"Of course, Miss Collins. What can I do to help?"

"It's Quentin. He's behaving very strangely," Judith began. Rachel seemed poised to mention that he must be grieving, but Judith gestured there was more. "Even before we learned of Beth's death—Quentin was up and dressed before me this morning. He was trying to reach Evan Handley, and seemed very upset to learn that Evan is away. I want to respect his privacy, but …"

"How can I help?" Rachel asked.

"Will you look in on him later? I have to go into Collinsport and I'm likely to be there most of the day. I just want to be sure that he doesn't hole up in his apartment and drown his sorrows."

"Of course, Miss Collins, I'd be happy to, but what about the children?"

"I thought perhaps Elsie could stay with them. In truth, she's very upset about Beth's death. It's unlikely she'll get much work done anyway."

"That's an excellent idea. She's actually closer in age to Jamison than she is to any of the household staff. I'll set up some drawing, reading, and games, instead of their usual lessons."

"Thank you Rachel. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it."

* * *

Breakfast had been an uninspired, dismal affair. The eggs were cold and rubbery; and the ham was dry. Even O'Neill's bread was singed at the edges.

Nora wept softly, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand from time to time. Rachel encouraged her to eat a bite or two, if only because she knew the child would be hungry later. In contrast, Jamison had peppered Judith with questions—many that Rachel herself would have liked to ask.

When did it happen? Where did it happen? Who found her? Did Judith think that she suffered much? Did Judith think Beth took her own life? Or was it really an accident? Jamison went on and on. In spite of her own curiosity, Rachel had asked him to stop, but it wasn't until Judith lost all patience. "That's enough, Jamison," she said in a voice that shocked them all. "You're making a difficult day worse." The boy looked shaken. His lips compressed into a thin line, and blinked back tears. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go into town and attend to the practical matters of her death." She stood, noisily pushing her chair back in the process, and left the dining room.

Rachel was left to soothe the upset Jamison, and calm Nora's tears. They returned to the schoolroom; all were uncharacteristically quiet. A short time later, Elsie joined them, and Rachel left the children in her charge while she went to the west wing to visit Quentin.

* * *

Rachel knocked and waited. She heard muffled movements within. She knocked again, "Mr. Collins?" _Why the pretense_ , she asked herself. The house was quiet as a tomb; there was no one around to hear her. "Quentin, open the door please." The sounds were less muffled now, and she clearly heard him sigh. "I'm not leaving until you open the door— _please_."

The door opened a crack. Quentin stood behind it looking down at her. "What do you want? What are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to find out if you're alright." She knew better than to mention Judith.

"Well now you've seen, you can leave," his voice was rough.

And Rachel, perhaps as much in frustration as pent up emotion, started to cry, "It's a difficult day for everyone," she said. "I should be with Nora and Jamison, but instead I'm here worrying about a thoughtless, ungrateful …"

"Come in," he told her in a gruff voice as he opened the door and allowed her in.

Through the door to his bedroom, she could see his bedding was a jumble. He was in shirtsleeves, though it wasn't a warm day. And his jacket was draped over the back of one of the chairs in his sitting room. An open bottle of brandy stood on the table. Now that she was here, she was unsure what to say or do. He was a mess.

"You must have loved her very much," Rachel began.

"My dear Rachel, did you come here in hope of making me feel better?" he asked in a mocking voice. "It's true that I cared about Beth, and I'm sorry she's dead, but …" he paused and went to pour another drink.

"But, you're more upset that Evan Handley is away," she finished for him.

"How do you know …" he began. "Judith told you. You're here at her behest." His disappointment was palpable.

"I'm here because I thought you might need a friend. I can see I was wrong." As she turned to leave, she noticed a pistol on the mantelpiece. He followed her line of sight to where he'd hastily placed the gun. She moved toward it, but in a long, single stride, he was there. "What are you doing with that? Were you going to … " Concern was in her voice and on her face.

"Go Rachel. Go now!" his voice was emphatic.

"No. Why Quentin? Why? If it's not because of Beth, tell me why. Help me understand."

He began to break down. Tears came to his eyes. "I can't. I can't." He held the pistol in his hand. She approached him carefully, and gently placed her hands over his. He covered his eyes with his other hand, and began to cry. "I can't. I tried. All morning, I tried." She slipped the gun from his hand.

"Why would you do such a thing?" she asked softly.

He buried his face in his hands and turned away from her. She put the pistol in the pocket of her skirt. Its weight tugged the waistband down a bit.

"I tried. I tried to end it. But I failed. I'm a failure. Even at that, I'm a failure."

"I'm glad you failed, Quentin. What could possibly be that bad?"

"My dear sweet Rachel, you couldn't possibly understand."

"Then help me."

He was silent for a long time. He paced the length of the room as he decided what to tell her. At last he began, "Do you believe in the supernatural?"

"I don't know. What do you mean?"

"I mean do you believe that there are things … phenomena that cannot be explained by the laws of man or nature?"

She knew that the only way to induce him to continue was to agree. "Yes, I suppose so."

"I am such a thing," he started. "When the moon is full I become … this thing … a beast that walks like a man, but is an animal. I've been cursed."

"Cursed?" she was incredulous.

""I knew you wouldn't believe me."

"It's not that. It's just hard to comprehend." She felt the weight of the pistol in her pocket. He must believe it was true to have contemplated such drastic measures. Perhaps he was mad, but even so, his desperation was real. She looked him in the eyes, "Tell me everything."

"Magda put this curse on me," his voice quavered.

"But why? Why would she do such a thing?"

He gestured to her to sit. "Do you remember I told you I was once married?"

"Of course, but she died while you were abroad."

He hung his head. "It turns out she didn't die while I was away. She was here all along." Rachel's eyes widened, but she let him continue. "She went mad, quite insane. So Judith and Edward locked her away."

Rachel interrupted him, "In the tower room!"

"Yes. They all knew she was alive—Judith, Edward, Beth, even my grandmother—and they lied to me day after day—knowing she was alive and right here in the house."

"It was her in your room that night. She tried to kill you!"

"Yes. Afterward, they had her moved to a room in the basement."

"The basement? And she there's now?"

"No, she's dead— _really_ dead—and by hand."

"Quentin, I …"

There were tears in his eyes. "It was an accident—a terrible accident, but Magda …"

"I don't understand. What does Magda have to do with it?"

"My wife, Jenny, unbeknownst to me was Magda's sister."

"So Jenny was a gypsy."

"Yes. And Magda doesn't care that I never meant to hurt Jenny, vengeance is their way. And she's right of course. Jenny would still be alive if it weren't for me. She would never have gone mad; she wouldn't have been locked away. It's my fault; it's all my fault. And I could accept the curse as punishment if..."

"If what?" She waited. When he said nothing, she said, "Tell me about the curse."

"On the night of the full moon," he began in a soft voice, "I transform. I become a beast—an animal. I'm no longer myself. In the morning when the sun rises, I don't remember anything—not where it's been, not what it's done." He covered his face with his hands. "It killed her," he whispered. "It killed her," he said firmly. "The schoolteacher—the beast escaped and killed her." He let his hands fall to the table with a thud. "There so much blood on my hands, Rachel—so much guilt on my conscience."

"This beast," she began tentatively.

He anticipated her question. "A wolf that walks like a man," he told her. He went on to tell her how Evan had contained the wolf with the spell of the pentagram, and how on the second night of the full moon the spell had failed, and the wolf escaped.

"So why did it work one night, but not the next?" she asked logically. "Does it work only once in a moon cycle? Or did Beth do something different from Evan?"

"I don't know," he cried. "And what does it matter?"

"So the spell of the pentagram uses magic to contain the beast?" she continued probing.

"Yes—black magic—the dark arts. You've probably heard that Evan and I share an interest in such things."

"Yes," she said truthfully, for she'd heard rumors of it among the household staff. "What if we try to contain it physically, instead of magically?"

"We?" he asked. His eyes searched hers.

"I can help. I have to. I'm not giving you the pistol back. So I think it's incumbent on me to help. And I know a place—a place where you'll be safe—where no one will find you and where the beast can't escape." She put her hand on his arm. "Let me help you."

"Rachel, I don't want to involve you in this, but I have nowhere else to turn, no one else to turn to."

"I'm already involved, Quentin. I care what happens to you."

He sighed, and considered. "What is this place?"

"I'll take you there later. Trust me," she said as she gently squeezed his arm.

* * *

Rachel returned to her room and hid the pistol under her mattress. Then she went to check on her young charges.

All the way to the schoolroom, Rachel worried about how best to help Quentin. Her mind worked through the situation. It wasn't a good one. It would take some time to lead him to the abandoned farm at the edge of the estate where she would hide him. She couldn't just send him there—he would need someone to secure the door. She could ask Elsie to look after the children, but what if Judith returned and found them gone. But there was more to consider. She needed to take him before the moon rose, and she'd have to return in the morning to free him. She knew how much he feared the full moon—enough to contemplate taking his own life. She knew too that she would have to take a big risk in order to help him.

Rachel returned to the schoolroom to find Jamison, Nora, and Elsie playing a made up game. Jamison seemed to be in charge, and the girls were going along with his instructions and giggling. All in all it seemed a welcome distraction from their collective grief.

Rachel's plan for the remainder of the day was to spend it with the children as she would any other day—lunch, followed by lessons, perhaps she'd read them a story rather than trying to teach that afternoon. This would give Elsie time to attend to the most visible household chores—making the beds, tidying bedrooms, and laying the firewood for the evening. Then Rachel would have to ask Elsie to stay with Nora and Jamison again, while she and Quentin slipped away. The morning would be easier. She would simply rise as early as possible, sneak out, and then return before being missed.

O'Neill had prepared a simple lunch for them—a hearty soup and her homemade bread. They ate it in silence, which was unusual to say the least when Jamison and Nora were present. Rachel's soup was practically untouched, and had gone cold when Elsie entered bringing a note for Rachel.

Rachel opened it and read: _Rachel, I've decided to stay the night at the Collinsport Inn. The recovery and arrangements will take longer than expected, and I've no desire to make the trip twice in two days. I trust Jamison and Nora will be fine, but I must impose on you to keep an eye on my brother until I return. I thank you in advance for undertaking to do this, and of course, for your discretion. Judith Collins_

It was welcome news. It would make what had to be done much easier—at least this time.

Rachel felt badly for Judith, recognizing how difficult it must be for a woman of her bearing and standing in the community to ask a member of her household staff for this type of help. Then again, she had relied heavily on Beth and Dirk to help with Jenny, and to keep her secret. Still, look how badly all of that turned out.

* * *

It was late afternoon by the time Rachel saw Quentin again. She had settled Nora and Jamison down to play games with Elsie in the library. Then she headed back to her own room to retrieve the pistol, put on sturdy walking boots, and get a shawl to protect her from the early evening chill. Finally she returned to Quentin's room. He was waiting anxiously, pacing his room until her arrival.

"I thought perhaps you'd changed your mind," he said upon seeing her.

"I just wanted to make sure Nora and Jamison were occupied."

"And Judith?"

"She's staying at the Inn tonight, which should make everything easier," she told him. "Shall we go?"

"Yes." He pointed to a carryall bag on the table. "Would you bring the bag when you come in the morning? Please."

"Of course. What's in it?"

"I don't have another pistol, if that's what you're worried about." She shot him a look that said she was not to be trifled with. "It's a clean shirt. I'm going to need it in the morning."

He led her down the back stairs that he had used so many times to bypass the Great House foyer and front door, to leave undetected. It was new to Rachel, but she made mental note of how it might be useful in the future. Together they made their way out the servants' entrance, and from there, into the woods along the backside of the house.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"You'll see. It's not far from here."

"The old Peabody farm?"

"Yes, I suppose so—not the farmhouse—the root cellar. It's perfect. You'll see."

Before long, the woods began to thin, and the farmhouse was visible in the clearing ahead. Rachel ran ahead; Quentin followed, looking around suspiciously, though he knew no one was about. Rachel opened the dilapidated gate of the rickety fence that bounded the farm. Quentin followed her through and then to the far side of the house.

The yard was a mess. It was strewn with leaves, straw, and broken tree branches. Quentin guessed that the recent storm had contributed to what its current state. Rachel headed straight to one of the piles of broken branches. She bent and pulled a few of them aside, to reveal the angled doors of the cellar.

"It's just as I left it," she said.

"How do you know about this place?"

"It's a long story, and I'll tell you about it some other time. But there isn't time now," she said with finality.

A metal bar was wedged beneath the handles of the doors. She pulled the bar out and set it to one side. There was a bolt to draw open as well. Then Quentin helped her as she opened to doors. The fading afternoon sunlight illuminated the cellar below. "It's really clever," she said. "Hold this rope." There was a thick rope attached to a ladder. He did as he was told, watching Rachel and wondering at her facility with the complicated entrance. There was a large metal hook. Once she unlatched it, he felt the weight of the ladder on the rope. "Let it out carefully. See," she said, "It lowers the ladder."

When he felt it touch the bottom, he turned around and led the way down the ladder. She followed a moment later, carefully gathering the folds of skirt, as though she did this everyday. "It's just the way I left it," she announced. It wasn't much—a narrow cot, with a thin, hard mattress, a small table, and a few shelves with a handful of provisions stacked on them. She went to the corner, and retrieved and lit a lantern. "This is it. When I leave, I'll draw the ladder up behind me, and lock and bolt the doors. It's perfect, isn't it?"

"The perfect cage," he said glumly.

"I'm sorry, Quentin." She suddenly realized how her excitement must sound to his ears.

"Don't be. You should go. The moon will rise any minute now. You're in danger." He took off his jacket and handed it to her. "Take this please."

She took his jacket and slipped it on. It would be easier to ascend the ladder with fewer things to carry. "I'll be back in the morning," she told him, taking the lantern from him. She turned to leave, but then turned back and gave him a brief hug. "You'll be alright." She gathered her skirt again, and carefully climbed the ladder—one hand on the ladder, the lantern in the other.

Once at the top, she set the lantern to one side, found the rope and pulled the ladder up behind her. She secured it with the hook. Next, she closed the first door. Then she stooped low, looking through the open one, peering between the rungs of the ladder to the floor of the cellar below.

"Go Rachel. Go! Please!" His voice sounded distorted. He made a terrible noise. "I don't want you to see me like this."

Still she stayed. She had to know whether his tale was true or whether he was simply a murderous madman who believed he transformed into a beast under the full moon. There was only one way to be sure.

He urged her one last time to leave, but the very word "Go!" became a guttural growl. His eyes glowed yellow in the semi-darkness. She gasped aloud at the rapidity with which he changed from a handsome young man into a fearsome, snarling wolf. His face sprouted hair and his hands grew claws. It leaped toward the ladder wildly without thought or intention other than to reach her. She was glad now that she'd taken the precaution of removing the lantern, for surely the creature below would have no need of it, and might have set fire to the cellar if left to its own devices.

She slammed the second door shut, and drove the bolt home. She took the metal bar and threaded it through the door handles.

It … _he_ would be safe until morning. She pulled the tree branches in place to cover the doors. She knew she had to get back as quickly as she could, but all the way back to the Great House her mind was filled with images of the beast, and sadness for the man it overtook each time the moon waxed full.


	13. Chapter 13

In the Great House at Collinwood, even the walls conspire to keep the secrets of the Collins family. Two women, outsiders to the family, have made their way to a wing of the mansion that has long been locked and forbidden to outsiders and members of the Collins family alike.

Maggie Evans has turned to a friend to help her unravel the ongoing mystery of a strange man from the past—a figure that haunts her dreams. She came to the forbidden wing in search of answers, but found only more questions. And now as she returns with Dr. Julia Hoffman, she hopes to find an answer at last, or failing that, a clue to his identity.

They returned to find the Great House still deserted. They headed upstairs toward the west wing, stopping only long enough for Julia to leave her purse and medical bag in her room. Maggie led the way. The door to the west wing was exactly as she'd left it—closed but unlocked. Once inside, Julia opened the first room she saw, and looked in—furniture pushed to the sides of the room, covered in white tarps, shutters shut tight. She went to open a second door.

Maggie interrupted her, "It's this one." She gestured to a door across the hall. Julia followed her into the room. It was a small windowless room—a storage space. There were a few old-fashioned trunks, hatboxes, even a tailor's mannequin. A thick layer of dust and cobwebs were testament to the room's long abandonment.

In her mind, Julia compared it to the room she looked into across the hall. They should be similar. Also, she thought about how the room corresponded to the external façade of the Great House. By rights, the room should be much bigger, extending out to the windows. She went to the far wall. "Help me move this," she said to the younger woman. Together they pulled a trunk away from the wall. She approached the wall and tapped lightly on it. "It's a false wall," she said. Then she went to one of the other walls, and did the same. She turned to Maggie with a look of satisfaction on her face. "This room should be much larger. There's more behind these walls."

"Like the rooms I saw under hypnosis," Maggie responded.

"Yes, I believe so."

"Do you hear that?" Maggie asked urgently.

"No. What?"

"They're back—Harry and Mrs. Johnson."

"I don't hear anything. Are you sure?"

"I heard the car pulling up the drive. I'll go distract them while you finish up here."

Without thinking, Maggie went in the opposite direction from the way they'd come. She headed to the door at the end of the hall, and went through, closing it behind her. In near darkness, she followed a corridor to a steep flight of stairs. She knew intuitively to descend the steps. At the bottom, another short corridor led to a door. Her hands went to work on a rusty bolt lock. Her fingers worked desperately for a moment as she tried to pry it open. Finally, she felt it give a little. She worked at it furiously. At last she managed to pry it open.

She emerged in a corridor that led directly into the kitchen. She heard their voices clearly now. Harry was complaining about having to drive into Collinsport. For her part, Mrs. Johnson was chastising him for his lack of gratitude. They entered the kitchen mid-conversation to find Maggie with the kettle in her hand. She worked to calm her breathing after her frantic scramble from the west wing. Her telltale cheeks radiated warmth from the exertion.

"What are you doing here, Maggie?" Harry asked suspiciously.

It was Mrs. Johnson who answered, "What does it look like she's doing? She's making a cup of tea."

"That's just it, Mother. Maggie never drinks tea. Do you Maggie?" Harry asked, once again in a tone of accusation.

The interval of their brief conversation allowed Maggie to recover her breath. "No, I don't, but I offered to make some tea for Julia."

"Dr. Hoffman's here? I thought she was at the Old House."

"Harry!"

"It alright, Mrs. Johnson. I returned this afternoon, Harry," Julia said from the doorway of the kitchen. "I had no idea you found my life so fascinating."

"Harry, don't you have something else to do, like putting the car in the garage?" Mrs. Johnson said sharply. And then to Julia, "I'm sorry Dr. Hoffman. I don't know what gets into that boy sometimes." Harry muttered something incomprehensible as he skulked from the room. "Let me finish making the tea, Maggie," Mrs. Johnson offered in further recompense for her son's boorish behavior.

"I don't mind, Mrs. Johnson. Besides, you haven't even taken off your hat and coat. I'll finish the tea and make a cup for you as well, if you like," Maggie offered.

"Thank you Maggie. That's very thoughtful," Mrs. Johnson replied, and then ambled off in the direction of the servants' quarters, muttering under breath about Harry's rudeness in contrast to Maggie's kindness. Then she was gone.

A short time later, Maggie and Julia sat in the drawing room, each with a mug of tea, and plate of cookies that Mrs. Johnson insisted they have. If Maggie were honest, it hit the spot. Julia took her tea with lemon, but Maggie, when she drank tea, preferred it sweet with honey and creamy with milk. This afternoon, it helped her feel warm in the drafty drawing room.

"So, did you have enough time to learn anything?" Maggie asked Julia as soon as they were settled in the drawing room with the doors closed.

"Yes," the doctor responded drawing out the word in her trademark way, or so Maggie deemed it to be. "At least, two of the walls are false walls. I didn't take the time to examine the third. It seems likely that is in fact the room you visited while under hypnosis, but for some reason, false walls were added to turn it into a storage room."

"It makes no sense, Julia. Why turn a beautiful suite of rooms into storage? I understand that family no longer needs the west wing, but if it's just a bunch of unused rooms, why is it locked and forbidden? And most of all, why me? Why did he lead me there? What does he want? And why does he keep appearing to me?"

"I don't know, Maggie. And there seems little likelihood of us prying off one of the false walls to find out what's behind it."

"That's why I wish Barnabas were here. He's like the family historian."

"Yes, he is … perhaps, we've been going about this all wrong. Maybe we should be approaching this as historians would. If we can't find out who he is from the room in the west wing, we should scour Collins family histories until we find him. If we don't find him there, we should look through old editions of the Collinsport Register at the library in town."

Maggie sighed at the prospect, but said, "I agree. There is one odd thing though, Julia."

"Yes?"

"I'd never been to the west wing before today, and yet I intuitively knew that there is a back passage that leads to the kitchen and the servants' quarters."

"Yes," Julia said. "I agree. It is odd."

* * *

Collinwood, 1897

Rachel had spent a restless night pacing her room. Again and again, she was drawn to the window. The grounds of the Great House were bathed in light of the full moon. Was it only a month ago that she would have viewed this scene through romantic eyes? Now, it brought only worry, and anxiety for the measures she had taken to help her friend.

What must it be like for the young man himself? He faced a lifetime of this desolation, as punishment for an act he never meant to commit. It was harsh justice indeed.

The moon shifting in the sky, and the glow at the eastern horizon signaled Rachel that it was time to dress and make her way back to the root cellar.

The Great House was quiet, though she knew it would not be long before the servants woke and set about their chores. So she dressed quickly, slipping Quentin's jacket over her own, knowing he would need it—if all had gone well. She grabbed his grip, and slipped quietly out into the dim pre-dawn light.

When she arrived at the gate to the old farm, Rachel found things much as she'd left them the previous evening. The gate was closed, and the broken branches still obscured the entrance to the cellar. She pulled them aside to uncover the doors. The metal bar was still in place. The bolt was still driven home. She knew he— _it—_ had not escaped. All that remained was to see the condition of the man himself.

She removed the metal bar, and opened the bolt. She pulled the first door open. As she had the previous evening, she peered down into the cellar through the rungs of the ladder. "Quentin?" she called. No answer. "Quentin?" she called again more forcefully. Panic set in momentarily. She opened the second door. Then she heard a noise from below—low moaning, but nothing like the feral noise of the previous night.

"Rachel?" his voice was hoarse and raw, but human.

She lowered the ladder. Taking the grip in one hand, and gathering her skirt with the other, she carefully descended the ladder. In the semi-darkness, she saw him. Her heart seized in her chest. He was lying on his side on the floor. He was shivering. He was human again, yes, but … his shirt was shredded. His face was smeared with dirt. And though there was little enough in the room to destroy, the beast had managed to destroy what little there was. The mattress had been pulled apart; the few provisions were likewise thrown around the room; the small table upended—all evidence of a night of fury by the mindless beast that overtook him.

"Rachel?" he said again, in a voice slightly more his own.

She went to him, "I'm here." She helped him to sitting. She knelt beside him, and brushed his hair out of his face. For a moment his eyes were blank, and Rachel could see that there was more to the transformation than merely the physical. He was gradually coming back into himself. "Can you stand?" she asked.

"In a minute," he said.

"I brought your things—the clean shirt. And I brought your jacket," she said as she stood and removed it, feeling the morning chill for the first time.

"Thank you." He still seemed disoriented as he brought himself to stand beside her. She handed him the grip, and turned around while he changed his shirt. Though, in fact, it seemed silly, as she could clearly she his chest through the shredded shirt. When she turned back he was buttoning the fresh shirt. She handed him the jacket.

"You should leave that here," she said, indicating the tattered shirt. "There's no point raising suspicions by bringing it back to Collinwood," she added reasonably.

"You're right. Of course, my tailor might start to wonder why I've taken to ordering my shirts by the gross," he said. It was classic Quentin, she thought. She was glad and took it as a sign he was back.

She ascended the ladder first. Quentin followed carrying the now empty grip. Once at the top, they secured the ladder, and then the doors. It was only then that Rachel allowed herself a moment of triumph. A smile came to her lips. "It worked," she said. "We contained the beast. No one was hurt."

He dropped the grip, and took her hands in his. He brought them to his lips, and kissed them. "My dear Rachel," then no words came to him.

"We really should be getting back before we're missed," was all she said.

They walked in silence for a time before Rachel asked, "Quentin, why don't you ask Magda to lift the curse? If she put the curse on you, surely she must know how to lift it."

"Why should she? I killed her sister."

"Yes, but …"

"No Rachel!" His voice was as harsh as she'd ever heard from him. He saw her blanch and tears form quickly in her eyes. "I'm sorry Rachel. I didn't mean to …"

"It's alright. I'm just tired," she deflected his incipient apology.

"The truth is," he began, "I'm terrified to see her again. What if there are worse things she could do to me? So I haven't gone anywhere near the Old House since that night. I was a fool to have gone there in the first place. Had I stayed away, I would have been beyond her reach."

"But she lives with your cousin Barnabas. He must have some influence over her. Go to him, ask him for help," she implored, picturing him as she'd found him a short time ago.

"Tell him the truth? Expose myself and my secret to yet another person?" He went on, "And why would Barnabas help me? What does he stand to gain? If anything, it might be just the opposite. He might be happy to see me live out my days this way."

"Why would you believe such a thing?"

He didn't answer her directly. Instead, he said, "I'm sorry, Rachel." He took her hand in his. His nails were broken with dirt caked underneath, evidence of the beast's desperation. Still, he feared losing this moment. "I can't thank you enough. I owe you everything. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, even face Madga, if you ask it."

"Quentin," she gently withdrew her hand from his. Whatever it was that she first thought to say, she appeared to reconsider. Instead, she began, "Miss Collins will be back later, probably accompanied by Beth's body. There is a burial to attend to, and she'll need you by her side. You should be a good brother today, and you should mourn your friend. Tomorrow is soon enough to think about the rest of it."

* * *

When Judith returned to the Great House that afternoon, Quentin was waiting for her in the drawing room. Though she was as well dressed as ever, she looked tired. There were dark circles beneath her eyes.

"I know it's early for you, my dear Judith, but you look like you could use a drink," were his first words to his sister.

She pulled off her gloves and dropped into the armchair by the fireplace, "Sherry, please."

He filled two small glasses with sherry, handed one to his sister, and waited until it took effect to ask, "How did it go?"

"As you'd expect. It was awful. Quentin, her body …" He'd never seen his sister shaken to her core. "It was nothing like when grandmamma passed away. It was …" She finished the rest of the sherry in a large gulp. She held out her glass, and he went at once to refill it. "It was terrible. I don't want to think about it anymore."

"You don't have to," he said with such a gentle tone that Judith looked up in surprise. "Where is she now?" he asked. "What arrangements have you made?"

"The casket will be arriving at the mausoleum shortly. The burial is to be tomorrow. There are a few people from town who wish to attend. I'll let O'Neill know to prepare something for afterward."

"I'll go to the mausoleum to meet the morticians. You look tired and you've done more than your share," he said soberly.

"Are you sure, Quentin? The town wags are already talking about you and Beth."

"Then this is a little fuel, nothing more." He turned to leave, and then turned back to his sister. "Whatever we had, Beth and I, it was over before her death."

"I know," Judith said emphatically. "She made that clear to me."

"Did she?" He laughed. "Yes, I suppose she would." Then he grew serious again, "Is it wrong, I wonder, that I feel sad, but not bereft? Right down to the end, I never understood what she expected of me."

"Oh, I think you did, you just couldn't give it. At any rate, it no longer matters. She's gone and what's done is done. I'm afraid that's how it is when someone dies—a sense of finality at last."

Quentin said nothing. He just nodded to his sister, and headed to the family mausoleum.

* * *

The burial itself was suitably somber, bordering on the morose.

Barnabas had come by the evening before to pay his respects, and inform them that he regretted he would not be able to attend the burial. Urgent business called him away to Bangor the following day. Quentin and Judith silently, but mutually, noted how deeply affected their cousin seemed by the death of a woman he barely knew.

In the morning, Judith had gone ahead to the cemetery to discuss the service with the curate from Collinsport. As the mourners began to assemble, she was shocked to see Magda and Sandor among them. Judith moved to intercept them before Quentin became aware of their presence. "What are you doing here?" she demanded of the unwelcome guests.

"Not to cause no trouble," Sandor volunteered quickly.

"We're just here to pay our respects. Whatever else happened, she cared for my Jehna. That's why we're here," Magda added.

"Very well, but stay away from my brother. Do you understand? And I hope it's understood that you are not welcome at the Great House afterward." With that, she stalked off in search of her brother.

She found him a short way up the lane that led to Eagle Hill Cemetery, where Beth was to have her eternal resting place. The household staff had just arrived. Quentin escorted Rachel, Jamison, and Nora, a few steps behind the others. Jamison walked beside Quentin, doing his best to look grown up. In contrast, Rachel held Nora's hand, and the child looked as though she'd been crying. Rachel had offered to stay behind with Nora, but the child insisted and in the end her aunt relented and allowed her to attend.

As they approached the cemetery, Judith swept into view and moved to intercept them. She wasted no time in saying, "I wanted you to know that Magda and Sandor are attending the service." Quentin turned at once to Rachel. His face was white with fear or rage. She couldn't say which. Judith continued, "For all our sakes, I thought it best to not attempt to turn them away."

Rachel could guess what Quentin must be feeling. As their eyes met, she gave him an affirmative nod. He turned to face his sister. "I don't want them anywhere near me," he said bitterly.

"Of course. It goes without saying that they're not welcome to come to the house afterward. I've made that clear. Shall we?" And then she led them to Beth's burial site.

* * *

Rachel saw a different side to Collinwood that afternoon. Following the funeral, the household staff—all of them—along with acquaintances of Beth from Collinsport, were welcomed into the drawing room to take coffee and cake with the Collins family, though only Judith, Quentin and the children were present.

Quentin noticed Judith in a hushed conversation with a woman he didn't recognize. Judith had shepherded the woman into the foyer. In the end, Judith had graciously taken the woman's hand and ushered her out the door. Quentin wasted no time in asking his sister, "Who was that?"

Judith responded in the most nonchalant tone she could muster, "A friend of Beth's family, Mrs. Fillmore. I'm afraid she was very upset by her death," Judith lied. But it satisfied Quentin's curiosity as she'd intended.

For her part, Rachel spent most of her time ensuring that Jamison did not single-handedly eat all of the cake, and soothing the sensitive Nora with gentle hugs and strokes. From time to time, she would catch Quentin's eye, or notice him observing her from across the room. But she was not alone in noting Quentin's interest. Dirk noticed the looks that passed between the two. He was the first of the household staff to return to the servants' quarters. He shot a sour look at Rachel as his parting gesture.

The trial of speaking well of the late employee that everyone present knew had been let go from her position was soon over. The household staff returned to its regular chores; Rachel took the children upstairs; and Quentin retired to the library with a book he'd borrowed from Evan.

Judith alone stayed behind in the drawing room. Once Elsie had cleared away the cups, plates and coffee service, Judith settled into her needlework beside the fire. It was only now—now that the body had been recovered, the funeral arrangements made, and the body laid to rest—only now, did Judith turn her mind to the convenient demise of Beth Chavez. Whatever her feelings about the young woman, she never envisioned such a fate for her. There was no doubt that it was an accident. The men who recovered her body were certain of it. But what had taken Beth to Widows' Hill? Beth's motives and feelings toward the Collins family were known, but what drove her and animated her final moments of life would forever remain a mystery.

* * *

The evening brought two guests to the Great House. Judith and Quentin had had a dinner of cold meats, cheese, and bread, and then retired to the drawing room. Judith occupied herself with her needlework, while Quentin found himself at loose ends. He paced the room, glancing from time to time to the far side of the foyer in hope that Rachel would join them.

Instead, a short time later, Barnabas arrived to pay his respects. "I'm sorry to have missed the burial today," he began as soon as he was settled in the drawing room across from Judith.

"I no longer feel a need to pretend, Cousin Barnabas," Judith began. "Though I wouldn't wish such an end on anyone, Beth and I were quite estranged by the end of her time here. Nevertheless, you are a part of this family, and we would have welcomed your presence. It was a sad business."

"Do you know why she was on Widows' Hill?" Barnabas asked.

"No, no we don't. She was planning to move to Bangor, and I believed she was already on her way there. It's tragic. There's no other word for it," Judith said.

There was a knock at the door, and Quentin excused himself to go answer it. Evan Handley stood there looking tired and still in his travel attire. "Quentin," he said taking his friend's hand. "We have much to discuss. I practically came straight here, stopping only to leave my bags at home."

"Come in, Evan. We can speak in the library." Quentin ushered him into the foyer, and waited while he removed his hat and coat.

"I should pay my respects to Judith," Evan told him as he moved toward the drawing room.

"Good evening, Judith." And then observing that Barnabas was present, he bowed formally and moved to shake the vampire's proffered hand, "Evan Handley, at your service, sir."

"Barnabas Collins," he replied with cool reserve. The man's resemblance to a malevolent creature in 1968 was unsettling. "Perhaps I should leave, Cousin Judith. I'm sure it's been a long day for you."

"Not on my account, I hope," Evan said genially. "I just stopped in to pay my respects, and have a brief, private word with Quentin. My housekeeper told me about Beth. I am sorry."

"Yes, it's been quite trying. Perhaps you'll come by again tomorrow to discuss whether she left any matters unresolved," Judith responded. Her face was impassive.

"Of course. Mid-morning? Say, eleven o'clock?"

"Yes. Thank you, Evan."

* * *

Quentin and Evan went directly to the library. Quentin channeled his nervous energy into getting a full account of Evan's efforts on his behalf.

"I'm afraid it's not good news. The gypsies are a very closed society. So a stranger showing up with a lot of questions was unwelcome to them. But eventually, I greased the palm of the right friend of a cousin of the king, and I was introduced to the man himself.

"He didn't look like much, certainly not like a king, but from his bearing and gravitas—I understood why his tribe chose him to lead."

"As fascinating as this is, what about me?" Quentin asked.

"Well, I couldn't very well come right out and ask him about how to break the werewolf curse. We circled the matter first—neither one of us wanted to give up a chit to the other so early in the game. I asked him about blood feuds, and he told me that was gypsy business, but he implied that he could be helpful if the price was right.

"I think he might be interested to learn the whereabouts of Magda and Sandor, so I held that back. Maybe that information will be enough, but I didn't want to offer it prematurely."

Quentin banged his hand in frustration on the small desk. "I was counting on you, Evan. I know I shouldn't have, but I was pinning my hopes on you."

"I'm sorry, Quentin. We knew it was a long-shot without any capital to offer him."

Quentin grew quiet, and Evan allowed him a few moments to take in their failure. Then he began, "Your turn—tell me everything. How did Beth really die? How did you manage your transformation on the full moon?"

"Beth's death actually appears to be accidental. It seems she fell from Widows' Hill to her death, though no one knows what she was doing there.

"As to my transformation, help came from an unlikely source—Rachel Drummond."

"The governess? Tell me more," Evan said with a lecherous gleam in his eyes that set Quentin on edge. "Did she cast the spell of the pentagram?"

Reticence crept into Quentin's demeanor. He felt protective of Rachel and of their friendship. Still, Evan had been a true friend, helping him from the very start of this waking nightmare. "No," he responded at last. "She locked me up in the root cellar of the Peabody farm. When I transformed, the beast couldn't escape. It was remarkably clever," he said with evident admiration. "And she didn't flinch, Evan. She watched me transform; she saw the wolf; and she never flinched," he added warmly.

"You seem quite taken with the girl," Evan observed in a way he hoped would ease the unexpected tension.

"I owe her a debt I can't repay. To her credit, I don't think she wants or expects anything from me."

"Unlike Beth, you mean," Evan said, knowing more than Quentin the truth of it. Quentin simply nodded his confirmation. "Well, it's late, and I need a meal, a bath and a good night's sleep," Evan continued. "Shall we have lunch following my meeting with Judith tomorrow? We can talk through what to do next."

"Yes, I'd like that—assuming of course that Judith doesn't have plans for you herself." Quentin sounded more like his carefree friend of old.

"Until tomorrow then." The two friends shook hands, and Evan took his leave. Quentin braced himself against the desk. He hung his head and contemplated the hopelessness of his situation.

* * *

Jamison had gone straight to bed, taking a book of adventure stories with him. But as usual, in contrast, Rachel had spent well over an hour trying to soothe Nora to sleep. Rachel had reminded the child that she had made the decision to attend the funeral against Rachel's advice. "You're too young for such things," Rachel told her young charge, "and this is the consequence of that." Then Nora had cried at being scolded. And then Rachel found herself spending another half an hour comforting the sensitive girl.

Now Rachel was descending the stairs to join the adults in the drawing room. In truth, she would much rather slide into her own bed, but she felt the weight of her social obligation, and thus headed downstairs. As she approached the bottom of the stairs, she saw Evan Handley emerge from the doorway that led to the study and the library. For her own part, she had little fondness for the unctuous, family attorney. But he was Quentin's close friend and confidant, and as such, she would afford him some leeway.

He approached her and said sotto voce, "If it isn't the remarkably resourceful Miss Drummond." This, he accompanied with a gentlemanly inclination of his head. "I believe you'll find Quentin in the library. I suspect he'd welcome your company."

Rachel's eyes darted to the drawing room doors, and then met Evan's again. "Good night, Mr. Handley."

"Quite right. I was just leaving." Rachel waited as he retrieved his hat and coat. He took her hand in his, bowed deeply and kissed her hand. "Goodnight, Miss Drummond." And then he was gone.

She looked at the drawing room again, and heard voices within. Almost involuntarily, her feet took her to the library. She found the door ajar. Knocking, she called softly, "Quentin, may I come in?" She pushed the door slightly and took a peek inside.

He was hunched over the desk; his hands supporting him; his back to the door. "Of course," he answered. Then he pulled himself up to his full height. And though his back was to her, she could almost see him putting on a brave, carefree face. He turned to face her.

"Mr. Handley told me you were here," she offered by way of explanation.

"Did he?" Quentin put his hands in his pockets, and propped himself against the desk. "Did he also tell you that his trip to New York was futile?"

"No, but I can tell from your demeanor. I'm sorry, Quentin." She stood beside him, and likewise leaned against the desk. "What will you do now?" she asked gently.

"Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I should plead with Magda to lift the curse."

"It's been a difficult day. You don't have to decide anything today. You have four weeks to the next full moon—a lot can happen before then."

He looked at her profile, unable to read her face. "I'm cursed, Rachel, and not just by Magda," he said bitterly. "I ruin everything and everyone I touch. That's the real curse. Indeed, the Collins family has seen more than its share of tragedy through the years. I feel as though I'm the current vessel for darkness that never lifts."

Now she turned and sought his eyes. She slipped her arm around his, and let herself lean into him. "I hate seeing you like this. I wish there was something I could say to make it better, like I do with Nora," she added with a half smile. "The truth is terrible things have happened to Jenny, to Beth, and to you. But there's more than darkness in the world—you have to believe that. I do," she said definitively. Then she gave his arm a comforting squeeze, and let her head come to rest on his shoulder. She felt his hand on hers. Finding her voice again, she whispered, "We should join your sister and cousin in the drawing room."

"Yes," he said though he made no move to do so.


	14. Chapter 14

In the pre-dawn hours at the Great House at Collinwood, a young woman wakes. In a semi-sleep state, she goes to her wardrobe, and selects a beautiful dress. Its purple hue is a perfect complement to her complexion. She sits at the vanity, brushes her dark locks, and begins the process of arranging them.

It is then that she notices a stain on her dress. Surely it hadn't been there before. It's a small, dark patch at her waist. It's the color of blood. And then before her eyes, the unbelievable happens. It grows. What began as a small patch grows into a long dark streak. She drops the brush. It clatters to the floor.

Her hand goes at once to her waist. It's moist and warm—it's blood. Then she notices a second streak of blood forms just above the first. She cannot comprehend what is happening to her. A third streak of blood quickly forms across her chest. Three deep scratches across her cheek almost immediately join them —like those the claws of an animal would leave. She touches her cheek, and her mouth drops open. "No," she says aloud. " _No—please_."

Maggie woke with a start. She sat up—her eyes wide with panic. One hand went to her waist, her other to her cheek. Throwing her blankets aside, she hopped out of bed, and ran to the mirror of her vanity. She drew several deep breaths. There was no blood, no scratches. It was a dream. Of course, it was a dream. Her eyes met their reflection in the mirror.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

If there was such a thing as a normal rhythm to life at Collinwood, Rachel believed this was it. There were no unexplained animal attacks, or madwomen escaping from the tower room. Instead, there were lessons with Nora and Jamison in the schoolroom, and games and walks outside in the afternoon. Evenings were spent fireside with Judith and sometimes Quentin.

Judith was back to managing the household and business accounts, and working with Dirk on renovating the groundskeeper's cottage.

Even Quentin seemed back to his old self again—emerging from his rooms well after noon, sequestering himself with Evan Handley, and from time to time joining Judith and Rachel in the drawing room after dinner.

And the days that passed this way were, to Rachel's mind, the best. She was happy. They were _all_ happy. There were no clouds, no specters. Life was good.

Rachel could not remember the last time Judith came to the dining room during the children's lunch, but on this day she did, in search of Elsie. "I have no idea where she is now," Judith lamented dramatically about the wayward maid. "I need her to deliver this letter to Cousin Barnabas at the Old House," she continued, indicating a letter in her hand.

"We'd be happy to take it for you later," Rachel offered. "Wouldn't we?" she asked her young charges. Nora made a nonverbal grunt, but Jamison was enthusiastic, noting how infrequently they walked that way now that Barnabas lived there.

"He values his privacy," Judith explained.

"And we'll be staying just long enough to leave the letter," Rachel added lest Jamison get the wrong idea about their purpose in going there.

Afternoon lessons temporarily forgotten, Jamison asked, "When do we leave?"

"After mathematics drills," Rachel replied soberly. "Unless it's urgent," she added turning to Judith.

"No, nothing like that. It's an invitation. I'm having a small dinner party to thank Barnabas, Evan, and you for your help during our recent troubles."

" _Me_? I've done nothing special," Rachel demurred.

"You have, and I'm grateful for it," was Judith's warm reply.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Rachel, Nora and Jamison took the path through the woods to the Old House of the estate. The path, so menacing after dark, seemed harmless, inviting even by the light of day.

Nora and Jamison had been enjoying a period of peaceful co-existence. Today they were playing a made-up game—running ahead of Rachel down the path—stopping and starting from time to time. She wasn't involved or privy to the rules of their game. It didn't matter. She was content to follow the tributaries of her own thoughts. Collinwood, strange as it was, had become her home. It was odd that she accepted so readily what Quentin called the supernatural—the many things that could not be explained by the laws of man or nature. And then there was the man himself—Quentin. The return to normality had pushed them back to arm's length, but there remained between them an unspoken intimacy borne of their shared experience.

Collinwood was a place where secrets were layered upon secrets—the life and death of Jenny Collins, the mystery of Beth's demise, and the existence of werewolves. Now she was a player in this drama, no longer just an observer. She had come a long way from her previous life. And strange though her current life may be, she had no desire to return to her previous one.

The Old House was now in sight, and the children had slowed their pace to allow her to catch up to them. "We're not staying long," she reminded them, "even if we're invited."

"I don't like the Old House," Nora said plaintively as they approached the clearing leading to its front door.

"Since when?" Jamison challenged her.

"Since now," Nora responded. "And I don't want to go in."

"Really Nora. Why didn't you say so before we left? You could have stayed behind," was Rachel's frustrated response.

"I know, and I'm sorry. It's just that I wanted to play and go for a walk, but now that we're here, I remembered that I don't like it here." The child was emphatic, and then reverted to a whiny tone, "Oh _please_ don't make me go inside."

Rachel sighed, "How am I supposed to explain this to Mr. Collins? He'll be so offended." She looked at Jamison, "Very well. Jamison, would you please stay here with Nora while I deliver the note? I promise I won't be but a few minutes."

"Fine," he said, though clearly unhappy. He added, "Why does she have to ruin all our fun?"

"Thank you, Jamison. Please stay here in the clearing. I'll be back shortly," Rachel told them.

Rachel crossed the clearing to the door and knocked. The door had been left unlatched and gently swung open at her knock. "Hello," she called. She stepped into the foyer, and waited for a response. She called out again, "Hello? Mr. Collins, are you in?" Receiving no response, she called out again, "Magda? Sandor?" She waited in the foyer for a moment then ventured to the drawing room. There was no one about. The house was quiet and still. She made one more attempt. This time, she approached the foot of the stairs, and called out, "Hello. Is anyone home?" Again she received no response. She decided she would leave the invitation on the mantle. Surely, he would see it there.

As she turned to cross the foyer, she noticed the door to the basement was ajar. Perhaps, someone was downstairs and unable to hear her. She went to the door, and pushed it open slightly. "Hello," she called. The stairs were illuminated by candlelight. Surely someone was there, or the candles would not be lit. She took a few tentative steps down the stairs. Something told her she should turn back, but another, perhaps stronger instinct propelled her forward.

She took a few more steps down the stairs. She did not call out. She was aware that she now crept in silence like a sneak thief or a prowler. Why? Why not turn back? In the dim, indistinct candlelight, she saw the answer. At the bottom of the stairs, in the basement's landing, there was a coffin. _A coffin?_ Rachel's mind tried to make sense of it. She felt compelled, drawn to it, but why? It was as though a mind silently reached out and drew her there. Unable to resist, she approached it. She stood for a long moment, her hands on the lid. She knew she should not open it. She knew she should run away, run up the stairs to safety, but whatever force acted upon her now would not allow it. She must open it.

And open it she did. The wooden lid was heavy, and creaked and groaned as she slowly lifted it. Her hand went to her mouth; the color drained from her face. Barnabas Collins lay there as though in repose.

* * *

Did she drop the lid and let it slam shut? Did she lower it gently? She would never know or remember, for her next memory was of herself in the foyer—flushed, shaking and desperate to regain her composure. It took several breaths to recollect where she was and her original purpose in being there. She staggered to the drawing room, and drew the letter from the pocket of her skirt. She placed it on the mantle. Her breath was still ragged and short; her hands shook.

Her mind willed her to go outside, and her feet complied. She found Jamison and Nora at the edge of the clearing, each looking disconsolate for their own reasons. It was the little bit of normality she needed to adjust. They were there; they were real; they were her responsibility. There would be time to make sense of what she saw, but now she must get them safely home.

"You were gone awhile. Are you alright?" Jamison asked.

"Yes. No one was home. I decided to leave it on the mantle. We should go now," Rachel said in a voice that sounded foreign to her ears. She hoped the children would not notice.

Just then they heard the snap of twigs and the shuffling of approaching feet. Sandor and Magda came through the woods into the clearing. "Eh, what are you doing here?" Magda asked without greeting them.

Rachel found her voice, "I came on Miss Judith's behalf to deliver a letter to Mr. Collins. Since no one was home, I left it on the mantle. Would you please see that he receives it?"

"'Course." It was Sandor who answered, nodding politely in her direction.

"Thank you," Rachel responded.

Sensing something different in Rachel, Magda eyed her narrowly. She said, "Miss Governess, you want me to read your cards again, eh?"

"Please, Rachel," Jamison enthused.

"No, thank you Magda," Rachel said quickly. And then to Jamison, "We have to get back now. Sandor, Magda," she nodded to each. Taking Nora's hand, the three disappeared down the path leading back to the Great House. Magda watched their departing figures until they were out of sight.

All the way back to the Great House, Rachel turned it over again and again in her mind—another Collins family secret. Barnabas slept in a coffin. But if he only slept, why didn't he wake when she opened it? There must be another explanation. _But what_? She must find it. She had to know the truth of it, otherwise how could she look Barnabas in the eyes again?

"Rachel? Rachel?" Jamison's voice broke into her thoughts.

"Sorry, I was lost in thought. What is it, Jamison?"

"I asked if Magda read your cards before? She asked if you wanted her to read them _again_ , so I guess she did it before."

"Yes. It was not long after I arrived. It's all nonsense, you know," she said definitively, but recent events suggested it was anything but.

* * *

The rest of the day passed unremarkably. Rachel had dinner with the children. She had then put them to bed. Even the usually difficult Nora went to bed in short order, leaving Rachel to join Judith quite early in the evening. A short time later, Quentin arrived from having dinner with Evan Handley, and joined them in the drawing room for an after-dinner drink.

For her part, Rachel was happy to see him, but her happiness gave way when she saw how silent and brooding he behaved. She suspected that he and Evan had reached another impasse in their search for a cure to the werewolf curse, but she could hardly ask him with Judith present. So instead, she returned to reading _Villette_ aloud. They had started it awhile before, but made little progress given all that was happening in the household. Judith sat to her needlework, and Quentin stalked impatiently between the liquor cabinet and the bay window.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Quentin began as his voice cut into the passage that Rachel was reading. "But I see Cousin Barnabas is approaching."

Rachel inadvertently slammed the book shut, drawing the attention of both Judith and Quentin. "I'm sorry," she stammered uncharacteristically. "Perhaps, I should excuse myself," she said.

But Judith intervened before she could rise, "No, please stay—both of you." Judith felt the need to explain. "It's not that I don't enjoy his visits. I do. He's a wealth of family and local history, but more of us will make for wider conversation. Don't you agree?" she concluded.

Rachel mumbled something indistinct and noncommittal, while Quentin didn't respond at all. Instead he strode to the door and opened it before Barnabas even knocked. Judith and Rachel heard him announce, "Please come in Cousin Barnabas. We've been expecting you."

They heard Barnabas respond, "Then I'm afraid I've becoming tiresome and predictable—something to which no one should aspire."

A moment later they joined the ladies in the drawing room. While Quentin returned to his window lookout, Barnabas greeted them politely, and began, "I won't stay long. I can see that I'm interrupting your evening's entertainment."

Judith responded, "It's true that Rachel is reading me _Villette_ , but you are always welcome."

Barnabas continued, "I've another engagement in town this evening. I only stopped in on my way to thank you and accept your invitation to dinner. I look forward to it. I'll take my leave now and let you return to _Villette_." As he prepared to take his leave, he bowed his trademark, old-fashioned bow—first to Judith then to Rachel. Looking at her closely, he said, "I hope you won't think me very ungallant, but you seem pale this evening Miss Drummond. I hope you're not unwell."

Rachel silently cursed her telltale complexion that was constantly betraying her inner emotions to others. "I'm not unwell," she began, "only a bit tired."

This pricked Judith, who hadn't fully realized how much she'd come to rely upon Rachel—as governess to the children by day, and companion to her in the evening. After Barnabas had taken his leave, she said, "I've been remiss. How long has it been since you've had a day off? Why not take tomorrow for yourself? It will do you good."

"What about Jamison and Nora? And their lessons?" Rachel asked, though she longed to quickly accept.

"It's only one day, and I'm sure we can manage on our own for a day. Perhaps you'd like to go into town."

Rachel looked heartened. "I'd like that very much."

Her apparent pleasure was short-lived. "Oh, I'd forgotten. Dirk went to Bangor this afternoon to purchase supplies. He won't be back until late tomorrow and I don't think you should go unescorted."

"Will I do instead?" Quentin asked, turning back from his sentry-like post in the window.

* * *

In the end, though not entirely satisfied with the outcome, Judith agreed. She could hardly rescind her offer to Rachel. So the next day, Quentin escorted Rachel into Collinsport. As a counterpoint to his quiet concentration, Rachel allowed herself to enjoy the carriage ride, appreciating the beauty of the woods that lined the road. Daylight brought out aspects well hidden after dusk—especially today, as rays of sunlight peeked through leaves and branches.

She waited as he saw to the carriage then together they made their way to the town's main street.

"So what's your pleasure today, Rachel?" he asked. He'd been silent and brooding all the way from the estate to town, and Rachel feared he would be thus all day.

But now, his spirits seemed lighter and she was glad. "I'm going to Mr. Stokes' lending library," she replied.

"Stokes' lending library! My dear Rachel, you disappoint me. What kind of fun is that? Besides, we have a library at Collinwood."

"I'm hoping to find some new adventure stories for Jamison. He goes through them so quickly. And perhaps another of the Bronte sisters' novels to read to your sister."

"And nothing for you?" he asked, sounding like his usually charming self.

"Perhaps," she said. "I'll see what he has to offer."

"Stokes?" he laughed. "Another rival for your attention, Rachel?"

"Really, Quentin," she began, but her feet stopped.

By now they were on the commercial stretch of the town's main street. Quentin continued on a step or two before realizing he'd left her behind. Turning around, he found her arrested by the dress shop window. He joined her. In the window was a purple damask dress. It's bodice and sleeves were simple, unremarkable, and reflected the fashion of the moment. But the three-tiered skirt set it apart from the usual gown. Each tier was trimmed with the same thin black lace that bounded the neckline. A sign beside it read _Machine Manufactured in New York_.

"It's beautiful," she said, aware of his presence though not of him in particular.

" _You_ would make it so." His voice was so intimate, so familiar that she blushed deeply. "Shall we go in?"

"No." A bitter edge crept into her voice. "I can't afford a dress like that. And besides, where would I wear it? Chasing after Nora and Jamison in the schoolroom?"

"Fireside in the drawing room," he purred. It was Quentin at his most charming.

She hated to disappoint him. Still, she said firmly, "The lending library awaits."

"Right—Stokes. How could I forget?"

"Why don't we split up for awhile? Surely there must be things you'd like to attend to in town. We could meet again in an hour or so," she offered.

"Alright," he said, rubbing his hands together to indicate his satisfaction with this plan. "As a matter of fact, I'd like to stop in at my tailor. I'll meet you at the Blue Whale in an hour."

"At the _Tea Shoppe_ ," she said pointedly.

He sighed deeply and suggested a compromise. "At the dining room of the Inn—I still have a tab there thanks to grandmamma's largesse. I can offer you an afternoon repast."

"Sold," she laughed. It was genuine and suffused her entire face. She offered him her hand to shake as if to seal the deal. Instead, he took her hand in both of his and brought it to his lips. His lips were so warm that their heat lingered on her bare skin. He lifted his eyes to meet hers. There it was again—that surprising intimacy between them. Rachel's cheeks involuntarily flushed. She was temperamentally unsuited to his kind of flirting.

He laughed at her. "Until later, my dear Rachel."

* * *

Rachel crossed the street and made her way to its corner to Mr. Stokes' library. It was housed in a non-descript, brick storefront that matched every other storefront on the block; only a small shingle hanging outside distinguished it for visitors. As she opened the door, a small bell rang to announce her arrival. "Good afternoon, Mr. Stokes," she called out. "It's me, Rachel Drummond."

She entered and began looking around. She had been here only twice before, but Mr. Stokes seemed the kind of man with a keen memory, and she felt certain he would remember her.

She had come with a purpose beyond those she mentioned to Quentin. She remembered from her previous visits that the library had a surprisingly rich collection of books on the occult. At the time, she never imagined that it would attract her. Yet here she was, no longer a stranger to this corner of human existence. She strolled down the aisle, passing shelves containing works of fiction, others on local history, atlases, all manner of books, until she reached the far end of the aisle. It was here that she remembered seeing the books she now sought.

She slowly and carefully scanned the titles. Nothing seemed quite to her purpose. Where did she even begin? Magic? Demonology? It was no wonder Mr. Stokes had a reputation for eccentricity. "Ah, Miss Drummond, lovely to see you again." Rachel jumped at the sound his voice beside her. He was a large man, and not young. How did he manage to appear beside her without her noticing his approach? "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

As her heart returned to its normal rhythm, she said, "I didn't hear you approach. It's nice to see you too."

"I sense you've come for something particular this afternoon."

"Well, yes," she began. "Some adventure stories for Jamison, and perhaps a novel to entertain Miss Collins, and …" she said so tentatively, he interrupted.

"And something on the occult," he finished her sentence, indicating the section she now browsed.

"Yes," she said flatly.

"Well, you've come to the right place. And what in particular interests you, my dear? The practice of magic? Casting of spells and the like? Summoning spirits and uneasy souls? No, I think not." His eyes were unsettling as though they could see her true purpose. "Creatures of the night, I think. Is that what you seek?"

"Yes, but how did you know?"

He snorted an avuncular chuckle, "Well, you do live at Collinwood. The town is rife with rumors … has been for years, decades even. As you can see it's a _particular_ interest of mine." He drew a small, tattered volume from the shelf. "I think you'll find this one contains the answers you seek," he said handing it to her.

She examined the book, opening it to the title page. It was the diary of Ben Stokes. "Ben _Stokes_?" she asked.

"Yes—my great-uncle. He worked for the Collins family nearly all of his life. He knew that Joshua Collins did not faithfully document the history of the family. There were certain events he changed or left out altogether to protect the family's reputation. So Ben decided to document the truth. It was handed down to me, and to my knowledge no other living soul has read it. You must borrow it—return it at your convenience."

"It's a family treasure then," she said.

"Indeed," he answered. "Though I never quite thought of it that way before. More of a family responsibility … burden," he murmured softly.

"Thank you, Mr. Stokes, but are you sure?" She was grateful, though bewildered.

"Of course I am. Do you know why?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

"It's because I see a kindred spirit in you, Miss Drummond—a fellow traveler in a mysterious world that we have not chosen, but has chosen us. My great-uncle was the same. You will use his knowledge as you will, and I trust it will be safe with you. And now," he said, turning back to the rest of the collection, "let's see what we can find to satisfy the other members of the household."

* * *

Quentin was waiting for her when she arrived at the Inn. He sat in a quiet corner of the dining room; an open bottle of wine and two glasses sat before him. He stood as she approached, pulled out the chair, and helped her into her seat. She carried a small tan satchel, which she placed on the empty chair beside her.

"You must have borrowed a great many books," Quentin said with a raised eyebrow and a quizzical look.

"Yes—so many, in fact, that Mr. Stokes insisted I borrow the satchel as well to carry them home."

He held out his hand. "Well, let's see."

She was instantly on her guard. "Why?" she began. "You weren't interested enough to accompany me."

"Would you have welcomed my company?" he asked slyly.

She sighed and handed him the small bag. He opened it and glanced briefly at each book—two volumes that could only be for Jamison, fairy tales that might appeal to Nora, and two novels he felt sure he would hear Rachel reading aloud to Judith in the near future. He drew out one mystery item—nothing on its cover, nothing on its spine. She took the book from him and returned it to the satchel. "It's a memoir of Mr. Stokes' great-uncle Ben. He used to work for your family one hundred years ago, and fancied himself a bit of a historian," she said feeling defensive of the man she'd never met, and challenging Quentin to make fun of her.

Instead, he set the satchel aside, and challenged her in his own way, pouring each of them a glass of wine, and waited for the protestation that he felt was sure to follow. She surprised him by raising her glass to him, "Thank you for escorting me into town, Quentin. I hadn't realized how much I needed this."

He touched his glass to hers. They both drank. "I took the liberty of ordering for us. I hope you don't mind."

"On the contrary," she said smiling, "I trust you completely." Then she gave him a significant look, and added, "to order our midday meal, I mean."

"Why Rachel, you do puzzle me? I'm never quite sure which Rachel is going to turn up—the prudent and practical, the fearless, or the saucy. I like them all, though not in equal proportions."

She smiled broadly and teased, "Why Mr. Collins, whatever do you mean?"

* * *

Late that afternoon, they arrived back at the Collinwood stables. Quentin helped Rachel down from the carriage, allowing his hand to linger a moment on her waist. "I suppose you'll be continuing _Villette_ later?"

"Actually, I thought I'd extend my day off a little further by reading in my room this evening. Ben Stokes' memoir is rather thin. I hope to read it in a single sitting."

"How very single-minded of you," he said, his disappointment evident.

He handed her the satchel. "Thank you, Quentin. And thank you for a lovely day," she said.

That evening, Rachel sat in the armchair in her room, and opened Ben Stokes' diary. She made short work of its opening chapters detailing his early life and the crimes that brought him to Collinwood as an indentured servant. A third of the way through, the tone changed. His _life_ changed. The arrival of a sorceress masquerading as a maid changed the future of the Collins family forever.

Rachel devoured page after page. She knew now why Mr. Stokes had pressed it upon her. _Creatures of the night_ , he had said. Barnabas Collins was one. He was the same Barnabas Collins that the sorceress, Angelique, cursed to walk the night for all eternity; he was the same Barnabas Collins that Joshua Collins locked in a secret room in the family mausoleum—again, _for all eternity_. Who freed him, when, or why hardly mattered. All that mattered was that it was indeed he—a creature of the night—a vampire.

Now all of Barnabas' idiosyncrasies and eccentricities came into sharp relief—his penchant for late night visits, his unexplained absences, and … only now did Rachel think about the full implications. It must be Barnabas who was responsible for the attacks in Collinsport. The attacks began long before Quentin was cursed, and they were not consistent with werewolf attacks. They began not long after Barnabas came to Collinwood—or as she now understood—not long after he was released from his sealed coffin. And it must be Sandor and Magda who released him. It made sense; it explained their continued residence at the Old House and their devotion to its master. If this was the case, and if what Ben Stokes wrote was true, Barnabas could indeed influence Magda to lift the curse—in fact, he could compel her to do so.

Rachel carefully hid the thin volume under her mattress. After reading it, she thought sleep might elude her. Instead, she found that she was quite tired from the day's and evening's diversions. Most of all, she was unsure how to use her newfound knowledge, and believed that a good night's sleep might well provide the answers she sought.

* * *

The following day afforded little opportunity for contemplation. The children were restive and pointedly disappointed about being left out of Judith's dinner party. They tried Rachel's patience all day long—Jamison by being smart-alecky, and Nora by being in turns sullen and clingy. Though she'd not seen them all of the previous day, she was grateful when late afternoon arrived and she could entrust them to Elsie's care.

She went early to her room and set herself to the thankless task of dressing for dinner. Though Judith had emphasized that it was merely an expanded family dinner, and not to worry about attire, Rachel knew her nicest dress paled in comparison to Judith's daily wear. It was also true that she had worn it to Beth's funeral not long ago, and that rendered wearing it on an occasion such as this somewhat unseemly. In short, she would once again have to make do.

Even if she could not wear her best dress, she could wear her nicest skirt instead. It was a rich midnight blue with a subtle pattern and texture. For some reason, she wore it infrequently now—only once in her memory of her time at Collinwood. The weight of the fabric, its drape, and movement made it seem finer than its cost. She would remove the inset collar from her cream-colored silk blouse to reveal more of her neck and décolletage. She pin-curled several tendrils of hair, and set about styling her dark locks.

The final touch was a gold broach that she would wear at her throat on length of deep blue ribbon. The oval-shaped broach, a floral insignia surrounded by tiny blue stones—they could be sapphires, garnets, or cut glass for all she knew or cared—had been her mother's. Through all her years at Worthington Hall, she hid the precious piece and kept its existence as her solitary secret. It was the only remaining connection to her long-deceased parents—her last connection to the family that might have been and the life she might have had had an accident not cut short their lives.

The final touch before going to dinner was to unpin her curls and let her many tendrils fly free. She sat at the vanity and surveyed her reflection. She believed she looked well, not fancy, but refined. Given her circumstances in life, it was all she could ask.

* * *

When Rachel arrived in the drawing room, she found Judith already there, warming herself in front of a blazing fire. She was, as always, impeccably dressed in a gown of burnt orange silk. It was sumptuous, yet simple.

"Good evening, Miss Collins," Rachel greeted her hostess for the evening.

"Rachel, you look lovely."

"Thank you again. I'm genuinely honored to be included," Rachel said.

"You're welcome, of course. I've not said it often enough, but I really do appreciate all that you do for the children and me." Judith looked around and smiled, "Leave it to the ladies to be first."

"Now, now Judith," Quentin said as he entered the drawing room, tugging at the cuff of his starched white shirt, and looking especially handsome in a dark evening suit. He bowed formally to them. "Ladies, you both look ravishing this evening."

Rachel colored a little, and was grateful for the dim lighting. Judith simply said, "Thank you Quentin."

"Shall I pour the sherry while we await your other guests?" he asked, already heading to the liquor cabinet.

His offer was readily accepted, and a moment later Evan Handley joined them. He thanked Judith for the invitation, bowing formally, and kissing her hand. Then he turned to Rachel, and bowed low to her. As he rose, he paused mid-motion; his eyes fixed on her décolletage. Quentin pointedly cleared his throat.

Evan rose fully and said to Rachel, "Forgive me, my dear, but I find myself intrigued by your broach."

Rachel's hand touched it lightly. "Mr. Handley," she said, "You do surprise me. Most men care little for such things as jewelry."

"It's an interesting piece," he responded. "May I?" She nodded her consent. He lifted it carefully, and examined it.

Quentin noticed that her breathing quickened, as evinced by the rise and fall of her chest. In a moment, he was beside them. "Sherry, Evan?" He offered his friend a small glass to divert his hands from their present occupation.

"Thank you, Quentin," he said as he gently released the broach. He took the proffered drink, but continued speaking to Rachel. "The insignia is quite distinctive," he began.

"You're a man of surprising interests," Rachel said.

"My interest is in botany. As I've traveled, I've learned a great deal about plants, their uses, and local folklore and customs associated with them. Unless I'm mistaken, this insignia is wolfsbane." Here he looked pointedly at Quentin.

"Wolfsbane?" Rachel had never given any thought to the insignia. The broach's only significance to her was sentimental.

"Do you mind if I ask where you obtained it?" he asked.

"I didn't. It belonged to my mother," she replied.

"Indeed."

It was too much for Quentin. "Evan, I know that interrogation comes naturally to attorneys, but this is a social occasion."

"Quite right," Evan said, and then to Rachel, "My apologies, Miss Drummond."

"Not at all," Rachel said as she glanced at the unexpectedly protective Quentin.

A knock at the door brought the awkward interaction to an end, and a moment later Barnabas Collins was ushered in. He made apologies for his tardiness, but brought with him in recompense a bottle of brandy from the Old House cellar. Rachel struggled to keep her face impassive.

"It's one of the few that was not pillaged during the house's long vacancy," he told them.

"Thank you Barnabas," Judith beamed and promised to open it following dinner.

A short time later, Judith led them to the family dining room. The room was lit by several candelabras, and the table was formally set. Judith took her place at the head of the table. Evan was seated to her left. Rachel was seated next to him. Barnabas was placed opposite them; and Quentin took his place at the foot of the table between Rachel and Barnabas.

To Rachel's mind, the dinner was remarkable—formal and old-fashioned. There were courses served and a different wine with each course. More than that, there was an expectation of conversation amongst them. Evan, she found, was the most gifted conversationalist, having traveled widely. He brought back interesting tales of different cultures and societies. He regaled Judith with some of these. At one point, he attempted to engage Barnabas, who up until this point had mostly been silent, by asking him whether he traveled much. Barnabas had responded that he'd been to the Caribbean, specifically Martinique.

Quite unexpectedly, Rachel felt her heart tighten on Barnabas's behalf. If he had been chained inside a coffin since the time of Ben Stokes, and only recently freed, he must feel out of place and out of time. Each question from Evan, though innocently meant, must painfully drive the point home to Barnabas. She offered him a conversational lifeline. To Evan, she said, "Mr. Collins is more of an amateur historian than traveler, I believe." And then to Barnabas, she added, "You put your time spent traveling from England to Maine to good use studying the rare family volumes you brought with you. Isn't that so, Mr. Collins?" Their eyes met, and there was something knowing on the part of each. Whatever he read in her eyes, he appreciated her gesture, and joined the conversation.

For her part, Rachel enjoyed the food, the atmosphere, the formality of the dinner, and most of all the novelty of it. This was something new and different. It was a welcome change to the growing supernatural landscape of Collinwood. It was a bit of 18th century civility in the more rough 19th century. She savored every moment.

Later they all retired to the drawing room. The brandy was opened, and deemed to be excellent by all. At the stroke of 10:30, Evan announced that he must leave, and offered to take Barnabas to the Old House. Barnabas declined, preferring instead to walk home. The by-now, well-lubricated Evan told him, "It's been a pleasure to properly make your acquaintance at last. Judith has spoke so highly of you and I see why. You must join me sometime at the Inn for dinner so we can get better acquainted." Barnabas gave him a positive, yet noncommittal response.

Sincere thanks were offered to the hostess, and then they were gone. The three residents of the household remained, but in spite of the generous libations, none seemed ready for bed.

Puckishly Quentin began, "I believe a chapter of _Villette_ will take us to 11:00. I long to know what will next befall Lucy Snowe."

Rachel laughed, "Aha, I knew you were listening, despite your demeanor to the contrary." She went to the library, returned with the novel, and assumed her usual place by the fireplace. Quentin took the second armchair, and Judith relaxed into the corner of the davenport nearest the fire. Rachel opened the book and began.

She'd read only a page when they heard footsteps in the foyer. A voice called out, "Judith?" The drawing room doors opened, and Edward walked in. He was dressed in traveling attire—still wearing his hat and gloves. "Judith, Quentin, I'm pleased to find you all still awake."

"Edward—this is a surprise," Judith was too languid to rise, but hoped her voice conveyed her pleasure.

Quentin rose and went to shake his brother's hand, "Edward. Welcome home."

"I should have called ahead to let you know I was coming," Edward said to Judith.

"Call ahead to say you're coming _home_? Nonsense."

"Well," he responded like a guilty schoolboy, "I've brought a houseguest with me. I hope you don't mind. He's a good friend—may I introduce the Reverend Gregory Trask."

A graying man with dark, deep-set eyes entered the drawing room. Edward said, "Reverend Trask, may I present my sister Judith, my brother Quentin, and of course, you already know Miss Drummond."


	15. Chapter 15

At the Great House at Collinwood, a rare interlude of familial good cheer and warm spirits is interrupted by the return of one of the family's long-absent members. He is accompanied by a man who is a stranger to most, but well known to one among them.

Collinwood 1897

"Reverend Trask, it's a pleasure to meet you," Judith said momentarily throwing off her languor to rise and greet him. "Please join us." She indicated a seat on the davenport. To Quentin she added, "Pour Edward and Reverend Trask a glass of this excellent brandy."

"None for me, thank you. I never imbibe alcohol," Trask responded with stiff hauteur.

"Edward?" Quentin held up the bottle. "You'll find it's very good. Cousin Barnabas brought it. Apparently, it's one of the few remaining from the Old House cellar that hasn't been plundered by gypsies."

"Thank you, Quentin. A small brandy sounds ideal after the long journey." With his drink in hand, Edward stood with his back to the fireplace and addressed them. "I met Gregory—the Reverend Trask—through a member of my club in Boston. He invited me to visit him at Worthington Hall. I'm afraid I overstayed my welcome."

"Not at all, Edward. We were most happy for your visit," Trask said graciously.

"Perhaps that's why you didn't receive my letter asking you to come home. I directed it to the club, of course," Judith remarked.

"Yes, I'm afraid that was the case. They sent the letter on, but it no longer seemed of moment when I received it," was Edward's thoughtless response. "I gather there is much to catch up on."

Rachel took this opportunity to excuse herself. With Edward's return, all thoughts of _Villette_ were gone. "I'll return this to the library for another time," she said to Judith. She turned to Edward, "Welcome home, Mr. Collins. I know Jamison and Nora will be excited to see you tomorrow." To Judith, "Goodnight, Miss Collins." Finally to Reverend Trask, she bowed her head. "Reverend Trask," she said simply.

She turned and took a few steps toward the drawing room doors when she heard, "Nothing for me, Miss Drummond?"

She looked up. There was Quentin, roguish smile firmly in place. _Not here, not now_ , her expression silently implored him, but her voice simply said, "Goodnight, Mr. Collins."

Quentin waited only a few indecorous moments before he made his excuses. He shook Edward's hand warmly, and welcomed him home saying, "We'll talk sometime tomorrow when you're at leisure." He offered Trask a perfunctory welcome, and then wished Judith goodnight and left.

Edward continued, "I've invited Gregory to stay on for awhile."

"Mr. Collins—Edward—has been kind enough to offer to show me the mill and the cannery and of course, the estate. He spoke so warmly of all of it, I look forward to seeing it for myself," Trask said, smiling at Judith.

Edward went on, "I'm anxious to hear all the news—how the mill and cannery are doing, all about Beth's unfortunate demise, and …"

"And Nora and Jamison, of course," Judith interrupted him, lest he forget his own children.

"Yes, of course," Edward said, chastened.

"Speaking of Nora and Jamison, I look forward to a reunion of my own with Miss Drummond. I think of her as one of my own, you see," Trask said to Judith by way of explanation. "I believe she said she was going to the library?" He rose to indicate his intention to follow her there. "And I am sure, you two have much to discuss without me present."

"Not at all. You're very welcome anywhere here at Collinwood. I hope you'll make yourself quite at home," Edward announced.

"Thank you, Edward. In the meantime, where might I find the library?"

"Out the drawing room doors to the right. There's a short corridor. It's the room on the left."

"Thank you, Edward." Gregory Trask made a slight bow, and with that he left in search of the library and Miss Drummond.

* * *

Quentin followed Rachel into the library. She stood at the bookcase—the book still in her hand, her eyes blank and unfocused. He went to her at once. Taking the book from her, he placed it at the end of the shelf.

He gently placed his hand on her shoulder. "You're trembling," he observed with concern.

"I'm fine," she said in a singularly unconvincing way.

He drew her into an embrace, and held her until her trembling subsided. He released her but took her hand. "What is he to you? Why does he upset you so?" he wanted to know.

"Oh, Quentin. It's a long story. I've lived in fear of this ever since I arrived here."

Reverend Trask entered the Collinwood Library without knocking, and found Quentin already there with Rachel. She knew from long experience the look of displeasure that crossed his face.

"Rachel," Trask began, "I was hoping to have a word with you—a _private_ word."

Quentin moved and positioned himself between Rachel and Trask. "Whatever you have to say to her, you can say in front of me." Aggression flared in his manner.

He felt Rachel's gentle touch on his arm. She stepped out from behind him. "It's alright, Quentin. Please give us a few minutes alone."

He covered her hand with his. "Are you sure?"

"I am," she said with more confidence than she felt. Anything less and she feared Quentin would refuse to leave—delaying the inevitable.

Quentin gave Trask a threatening look as he brushed past him on his way to the door. The man smiled, but there was malice in his eyes.

Though Quentin was unaccustomed to being denied, he closed the door behind him, seemingly affording them the requested privacy. Trask waited until the door was closed then he gave her a contemptuous sneer. " _'It's alright, Quentin. Give us a few minutes alone, Quentin'_ ," he mocked her in a childish voice.

* * *

Over the years, Quentin and his brother Carl had explored every room, corridor, and "secret" passage in the rambling Great House—and learned how to use their knowledge to their advantage. So Quentin went with alacrity to the study—home to one end of a hidden passage that connected the study to the library. From there, he could hear every word, and intervene if Rachel needed him.

"I see you have another protector, Rachel," came Trask's voice through the partition. "First Tim, and now this Quentin Collins."

"Quentin is my friend," Rachel responded, her voice firm.

"Wicked girls like you do not have _friends_ ," Trask said. "They have _admirers_ or _seducers_. Which is he?"

"What do you want, Gregory?"

Trask's voice softened. "It's been too long since I last heard my name on your lips. I want you to come home—come home with me, Rachel. You have no idea how much you've been missed. Minerva and Charity speak of you everyday."

"Yes, I can imagine what Minerva says about me." It was Rachel speaking, but Quentin had never heard her sound quite like this. "Why would Minerva care about a _wicked_ girl like me?"

"The children ask about you too. They miss you so," he crooned.

"What do you want, Gregory?" she repeated.

His voice hardened. "I told you—for you to come home with me. It is providence alone that brought me to you at last. The day that Edward came to Worthington Hall bringing news of your whereabouts was one of my most fulfilling. I've worried about you, Rachel; I've wondered what became of you. I feared for your soul everyday.

"Come back to Worthington Hall and together we will pray for your forgiveness. Together as we once did, Rachel, I will help you return to the road to righteousness."

"I won't go back with you," she said mildly, tamping down her nerves.

"Return home with me, Rachel," his voice was demanding. "You may return with your reputation intact, or you may return disgraced and humiliated. Either way, you _will_ return with me to Worthington Hall."

"I won't go back with you, Gregory," she shot back.

"Then you leave me no choice but to tell the Collins family all about you. Do they know you, my child? _Really_ know you, as I do?"

There was a long silence.

"I thought not. When they do, Edward will discharge you from your position and you'll have to come home. What's more," he went on, "I am certain that I can convince my new friend, Edward, to send Jamison and Nora to Worthington Hall to join our other charges. It will then be my duty to strip them of the wickedness that I am sure that you've imparted to them."

Only now did Quentin hear her voice falter. "Jamison and Nora are not wicked," she cried. "Leave them out of your cruel game, Gregory."

"This is no game I can assure you. Think about what I've said, Rachel. Perhaps join me now for evening prayers. It's been too long since we prayed together."

She made no response that Quentin could hear. But he heard the door open and Rachel's quick footsteps as she practically ran from the room. Then he heard Trask laugh and say aloud, "You will come home again, my child. Just wait and see."

* * *

Quentin knocked on her door. "Rachel, it's me, Quentin. Open the door." He pressed his ear against the door, after taking a peek to make sure he wasn't overheard. He heard her sobbing softly. "Please Rachel. Open the door."

After a moment, he heard her approach. The door opened a mere sliver. Tear-stained eyes peered at him. "You shouldn't be here," she whispered. But she offered no resistance when he gently pushed the door opened and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "If Miss Collins finds out …" she began.

Quentin surveyed the room with his eyes. Her valise was out and the door to her wardrobe was open. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm leaving. I have to."

"Why? Where will you go? What will you do?"

"I don't know yet—maybe Saint Louis or Chicago or San Francisco. My mistake in coming here was that I didn't go far enough away," she said as she allowed her tears to fall.

"Rachel, you're not making sense. What is he holding over you?"

Rachel pulled her lower lip between her teeth. At last she said, "I'm not the person you think I am, Quentin."

"Rachel Drummond, you are exactly who I think you are."

"No. No, I'm not. I've done things—things that I'm not proud of." She shook her head and turned away.

"Rachel, whatever you've done …" Quentin began.

She cut him off. "The point is that when Edward finds out, I'll lose my position here."

"What does Trask know about you?"

With a gesture, she invited him to sit. He sat in her armchair, while she sat at the edge of her bed.

"You know that I'm an orphan?" she asked.

"Yes."

"My parents died when I was quite young. I went to live with an elderly aunt, but she had no interest in raising a child, so she sent me to Worthington Hall. My parents had left me money, but my aunt was well off, and had no need of my inheritance or me. So she gave my inheritance to the Trasks to take me off of her hands—to educate me, paid for with the money my parents had left me.

"Each month Minerva Trask would show me the bill for my expenses. I was a _child_ , Quentin, with no one to protect me or look out for my best interests," Rachel's voice broke with the painful recollection.

"As I approached adulthood, Mrs. Trask explained that my parent's legacy was exhausted, and that Worthington Hall kept me on out of charity. She showed me an accounting of what they spent to educate, feed, clothe, and house me. Every penny my parents left me was gone. She told me she thought it right that I should work there—it would help pay back what they had spent on me. So I became a teacher there.

"I hated it. It was soul rending. Certainly as a student, I'd experienced my share of deprivation and cruelty at the hands of the Trasks, but nothing prepared me for being a party to meting out punishment and cruelty so inappropriate for young children.

"But worse," now Rachel colored and turned away from Quentin, unable to face him with the truth. "As I grew into a young woman, Reverend Trask's interest in me began to change. When I refused to punish one of the children in a harsh or cruel way, he called me wicked, disobedient, and sinful. He insisted I take private prayers with him.

"I had to meet him in his personal study, and read aloud from the bible. He would … I'm so ashamed. " Her voice faltered.

"Rachel, did he …"

" _No_. Not _that_ , but he treated me as though I belonged to him." She colored deeply at the memory. "It was as though he could do with me what he pleased. And he _could_ , after all I have no family, no one to turn to, no one to help me."

"What about Mrs. Trask? Where was she? Why didn't she put a stop to it?" Quentin asked, indignant.

Rachel answered in a small, wounded voice, "She did know, but she allowed it to go on. She was constantly berating me, making me feel as though his unwanted attention was my fault entirely.

"Things reached a turning point one day that is etched in my memory and on my soul. I was teaching morning lessons, when Gregory—Reverend Trask—came to the schoolroom unannounced. One of my students, a boy of no more than six, was drawing pictures during the lesson. Gregory caught him and insisted the boy be punished. The pictures were harmless, but the boy lacked discipline, Gregory insisted, and so he must learn it—he must be _taught_ it.

"There was a room—he called it a room for silent meditation and reflection—but it was no more than a denuded broom closet. He would lock misbehaving children in that room to reflect on their so-called misdeeds. They weren't allowed food or drink until they repented. He wanted to do that to a _boy_ of six, for something so little as allowing his mind to drift away from his lessons.

"He dragged this boy, this _child_ from his seat. Tommy—his name was Tommy—he cried. He was clearly terrified—struggling and wailing. I pleaded with Gregory on the boy's behalf. I assured him that Tommy would be punished. He released the boy and I thought I'd prevailed. Instead, he took me by the arm. 'Then you shall take his place,' he told me. And in front of all the students, he dragged me to the closet and locked me in.

"I pleaded with him, begged him to release me—to no avail. I banged on the door until my hands felt raw and bruised—to no avail. I cried until no more tears came. I felt spent with the futility of it all. It was then that I surrendered myself to the stated purpose of the room—reflection. I realized then that I had been deluding myself. I thought that by staying I could help those children—that I could protect them. But how could I help or protect them if I could not help or protect myself? I knew it, and I knew that the children would know it too. Indeed, that was part of Gregory's purpose in debasing me in that way."

Rachel closed her eyes and struggled to hold back tears. Quentin went to her. He sat beside her and took her hand in his. He gave it a gentle squeeze, encouraging her to go on.

"I came to a realization that day—I knew then what I had to do. And I put the night that I spent locked in that closet to good use. It afforded me time to think and plan—and steel my resolve.

"The next day, Reverend Trask let me out of the closet. I felt weak from want of food and water. Charity brought tea and toast to my room. I washed and changed, and wanted nothing more than to rest. But it wasn't to be. A short time later, Gregory came to my room. He said he was sorry for the necessity of punishing me in that way, but he hoped I had learned something valuable from the experience. I told him that I had and he was pleased. He told me that we must redouble our efforts through prayer.

"Heaven help me, Quentin. I played along. I let him believe he'd broken me." As she spoke, Rachel allowed her memory to take her back to a time and place to which she'd rather not return.

* * *

Worthington Hall 1896

"Rachel, it is time for evening prayers," Gregory Trask announced rising from the dinner table.

"Yes, Reverend Trask," she said obediently. Then to Minerva Trask, she asked, "May I please be excused, Mrs. Trask?"

Minerva Trask did little to hide her contempt. "I believe it is your turn to help Martha clear the table. But if the reverend says it is time for evening prayers, it is his wife's duty to submit to his wisdom and will." Charity and Tim kept their eyes down, fixed on their dinner plates. "Charity will take your turn this evening, and you will help for the next two evenings to make it up," was Minerva Trask's face-saving edict. Rising from the table, and throwing her napkin into her plate, she added "if the reverend will see fit to free you from evening prayers, that is."

Had Minerva Trask been a different sort of woman, had she not been complicit in her husband's cruel behavior toward the children and predatory behavior toward her, Rachel would have felt sorry for her. But as it was, Minerva not only turned a blind eye to her husband's behavior, she equaled it in different ways. Rachel would never forget that it was Minerva, whose mean accounting of expenses, had whittled her small fortune away to nothing.

So, night after night, she followed Reverend Trask to his private study for evening prayers. It was always the same. "Do you remember the prayer I taught you when you came here as a child, Rachel?" he would invariably ask.

"Of course, Reverend Trask," she would respond with outward deference.

"Say it with me now, child." Then they would kneel side-by-side and recite the prayer. Then they would proceed to reading. He would select a passage from the bible, or some of his favorite psalms, and she would read them aloud. She sat on the small uncomfortable couch. He positioned himself behind her, as though to read over her shoulder. Invariably, his hands sought her shoulders. Sometimes, they ran the length of her arms. Sometimes, he bent so close over her shoulder that he would brush his nose in the silk of her hair. Through it all, Rachel's countenance was one of obedience, penitence, and forbearance.

Then one evening, Minerva was unusually harsh to Rachel, accusing her of ongoing wickedness and the resulting need for evening prayers as a nothing more than a pretext to shirk her chores. "Poor Charity bears the brunt. It is her I feel sorry for," she said angrily.

As usual, Charity knew better than to speak, either to second her mother's assertion or to deny its veracity. Rachel, too, said nothing. It was left to the reverend himself. He stood, pushing his chair back angrily in the process. His face was red as he stared pointedly at his wife. "Rachel, it is time for evening prayers," he announced.

"Yes, Reverend Trask," she said in her smallest, most obedient voice, trailing behind him to his private study.

Once there, following their obligatory recitation, Trask selected a passage for Rachel to read, but he clearly remained upset by his wife's outburst. Rachel sat on the couch, and allowed tears to come to her eyes. She held the bible open before her, but rather than reading his selection, she began, "Reverend Trask, why does Mrs. Trask hate me so? Haven't I done everything you prescribed to bring me back to the path of righteousness?" she asked.

He sat beside her, took the bible from her hands, and laid it aside on the couch. "It is not you, my child. It is Mrs. Trask herself. Sometimes even the most pious among us needs to seek the path." He offered Rachel his handkerchief. She took it and blotted her eyes. He went on, "Did you know that Mrs. Trask is a good bit older than me? Perhaps she feels that her time grows short to accomplish her life's work. And, too, it must be difficult to see those younger than her be more _vigorous_." His eyes sparked and gleamed in the dim light. He concluded, "… In their teaching and worship, I mean, of course. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but …" Here, she paused and buried her face in the handkerchief.

"But what, my child?" he asked, as he put his arm around her and drew her into a close embrace.

She found her most meek voice, and began, "I fear that if anything were to happen to you, Mrs. Trask might turn me out, and I'll be alone and friendless." She began to weep softly, covering her eyes in the process, lest he notice that she no longer shed any tears.

So it began, and at each evening prayer, Rachel watered the seed she'd planted. Their prayer sessions were nearly nightly now. At each one, Rachel would mention her fear, and Mrs. Trask continued to play her role—constantly angry with, and consistently unkind to Rachel. She needn't do anything to provoke it, other than go willingly with Trask to his study. For his part, Trask welcomed the opportunity to tell Rachel of his frustration with the rigid Minerva Trask. Indeed, Worthington Hall had been her father's life's work. When he died, Minerva Trask inherited the school and all his property—Minerva took pains to remind the reverend of this daily. At the same time, Minerva truly believed that a wife must submit to her husband in all things—that she must be his helpmate, but he was the master of the house, and spiritual guide to them all.

Day-by-day, evening prayer-by-evening prayer, Rachel laid the foundation for what was to follow. Her opening came one day when Minerva was especially unkind to her. The reverend was leading prayers for the older students in the chapel, and Mrs. Trask used his absence to waylay Rachel after her afternoon lessons. "Is it you who used the last of the chalk, Rachel?" When Rachel denied it, Mrs. Trask's shrieking and berating could be heard throughout the school building.

In truth, by now Rachel felt bad about provoking the older woman to the point of breaking. It was a dangerous and cruel gambit, but Rachel's own future and wellbeing were at stake. Later, at evening prayers, she played her hand. He had, of course, heard about the pointless, unwarranted altercation between the two women.

"Reverend Trask," she began, "I fear more than ever that she will turn me out if anything were to happen to you. She was so angry, and I'd done nothing to deserve it. If only …" she paused.

"What? Name it," was his obliging response.

"If only there was a way I could feel safe, should the worst come to pass."

"We will pray about what to do for you, my child," he said.

"I would be most grateful to you, _Gregory_." When he did not correct or reprimand her, she knew that she finally had him where she wanted him.

A few days later, he had readily agreed to her hesitantly presented suggestion that he might set aside her wages in a place where, if he were not there to protect her, she could avail herself. It took him sometime to obtain the money, as Minerva kept a tight hold of the purse strings. But in the end, he showed her an envelope in his desk drawer. "Only you and I know of its existence," he told her proudly. "I am afraid it is not as much as it could be, or as much as you deserve, but if the worst came to pass, I believe you would feel some measure of security."

For this, she bestowed a heartfelt, "Thank you, Gregory," on the Reverend Trask.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

Rachel was quiet for a time. Quentin noticed that she chewed a bit on her lower lip.

She sighed, and began, "I snuck into the study in the middle of the night, and I stole the money, then I ran. I ran as far as I could that night, until I nearly collapsed with exhaustion. In the morning, I regrouped. I used most of the money to buy a train ticket. I took the next train that was leaving that morning. I didn't care about the direction or the destination. I just knew I had to leave the area as quickly as possible. If the next train had been heading south, I'd have gone south; if it had been heading west, I'd have gone west. But it was heading to Maine, so here I am.

"What you must think of me now," she said, disconsolate. She tried to withdraw her hand from his, but he held it firmly, but gently. She turned to him, "I _stole_ the money …"

He interrupted her. "Those were your wages. Had they ever paid you before that?"

"No, but …"

"Then you took what was already yours."

"There's more," she told him firmly. "I got off the train not far from here, and looked for a suitable hiding place."

"The root cellar," he supplied.

"Yes. At first I just hid. I was terrified of discovery, but after a few days, I knew I had to figure out what came next. So I ventured out each day—walking to nearby towns looking for work. I didn't want to work in a shop or in town, because I'd be too exposed. So I concentrated on looking for positions within local households. I perused every local newspaper I could find, and the postings in the local post office. I took a box there for correspondence. I would have taken any position from nanny to maid to scullery help, but then I saw your brother's advertisement seeking a governess. I sent a letter of inquiry, along with a letter of reference—I _forged_ —from Gregory Trask. So you see, I was hired under false pretenses. When Mr. Collins finds out, I'll lose my position. I'll be discredited and disgraced."

Quentin let go of her hand and stood with his back to her. Rachel felt certain she'd lost the one friend and ally that she could truly count on. She wrapped her arms around herself. Suddenly, she felt chilled, as though his hand on hers was all that kept the cold at bay. "At last I've found some measure of happiness. Why did he have to come here?" she lamented aloud.

Quentin dug his hands deep into his pockets and turned around to face her. He looked grave. "The real question is—what are we going to do about him?"

* * *

Quentin refused to leave her. Mindful of all he'd heard, he did not want her to run away during the night. He stationed himself at her door. "You must confide in Judith. She may not be a worldly woman, but she knows enough of life to recognize a charlatan when she sees one."

"And if she doesn't?" Rachel challenged him. "What then?" She paced the length of the room and turned back to him. Her hand unconsciously fingered the broach at her neck. "I don't know if I can bear to be around him—waiting, wondering when he will expose me. It's as though I've already returned to Worthington Hall and I'm at his mercy all over again."

"No, Rachel. If he wanted to expose you, why hasn't he done it already?"

"Because, he's toying with me. In the end, he'll use it to get what he wants—for me to return to Worthington Hall with him."

"All the more reason you must tell Judith yourself—and soon, before he does. Collinwood is your home now, and I'll not let him drive you from it by extortion," Quentin told her.

She sighed deeply. "I suppose you're right."

He went to her, and gently placed his hands on her shoulders, "Of course, I'm right. Promise me you'll be here in the morning." She hesitated. "Promise me, Rachel."

She looked him in the eyes. "I promise."

* * *

The next morning, Jamison and Nora were excused from lessons to spend time getting reacquainted with their father. Rachel was grateful for a few hours of solitude to consider what to say to Judith. Her hands were engaged in tidying the schoolroom while her mind considered her options. A part of her wished she had run when she had her chance. But Quentin was right; Collinwood had become her home. And the prospect of running again, and forever fearing being exposed was more than she could bear. She must face her past.

There was a knock on the schoolroom door. "Come in." Although it was still morning, Rachel hoped it would be Quentin. But her hopes were dashed when Trask himself entered the room.

"Good morning, Rachel," Trask said.

"Good morning."

He fixed his dark eyes on her. "I met your young charges this morning. Jamison and Nora are fine children—a bit undisciplined perhaps, but otherwise a credit to their father—and to _you_."

"I'm pleased you think so," she responded, though with pointed indifference.

"You've no idea how much I've missed you—how much I've _worried_ about you. Have you thought about what we discussed last night? About you coming home with me," he clarified.

"I've had little time to do so," Rachel said, willing her countenance not to betray her.

"Is it really so difficult to decide, my dear?" he asked gently. She had seen this before. He was by turns harsh, cruel, threatening, then craving her approval, and yes, even her love. "I am to stay on for a visit. I will give you the span of a day or two. Beyond that it would be difficult to explain the oversight to my friend and host," he told her. "I have missed you so, Rachel. Everyday, your absence has been like a wound to my heart. I shall expect you for prayers with me this evening," he concluded, heading to the door, his implication clear.

Rachel knew what she must do. She went at once to the study in search of Judith Collins.

* * *

As Quentin descended the stairs late that morning, he saw Rachel, clearly upset, exiting the corridor that led to the study. Stopping only to retrieve her short cape from a peg by the door, she rushed through the Great House's front doors. He knew he would find Judith in the study as she was everyday at this time of morning—returning correspondence, reviewing the accounts, and planning the household menus and schedules.

Without knocking, Quentin burst in on her. Judith looked up, shocked.

"What did you say to her, Judith? What did you say to Rachel?" he demanded. Before she could answer, he added, "She told you, didn't she? She told you about Worthington Hall."

"Yes, she told me. She told me how they had systematically plundered her family fortune, how she was forced to stay on as a teacher, and how in the end she'd run away from their cruel brand of discipline, and lied to obtain her position here."

"I assured her you would understand—that you would help her. Was I wrong?" he asked giving his sister a bitter stare.

"She begged me not to let Edward send Jamison and Nora there, but Quentin, they are Edward's children, not mine. And when Edward learns that she's lied …"

"Did she tell you about the so-called _reverend_ Trask?" he sneered. "How he took advantage of her dependence? How he stole her innocence? How he betrayed his role as protector and guardian? How he took advantage of _her_?"

"Stop it, Quentin. How can you say such things?"

"It seems I must, as Rachel clearly chose to spare your lady-of-the-manor sensibilities. She doesn't know you as I do. Does she, Judith? She doesn't know about the time that a charming Irishman swept into town and seduced an unobtainable spinster, and then returned to his wife and family in Boston."

"Stop it, Quentin. You go too far," she fumed.

Having hit his mark, he softened, "You have to help her, Judith. _We_ have to help her."

"I can hardly tell Edward what to do with his own children, but I can help Rachel …"

"As you did Beth?" he interrupted.

"That isn't fair," she retorted angrily.

Sensing they'd reached an impasse, he sighed deeply. "I must go find her."

"When you do, tell her I'll help in whatever way I can."

He gave her a look of withering disgust and a snort of derision, then left.

* * *

A short time later, Quentin found Rachel in the gazebo, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. "I thought I might find you here," he said as he approached her.

"I should have run away when I had the chance," she told him bitterly. "Now, your sister knows the truth, but says she can't help me. I feel so ashamed, so exposed. It's exactly what I'd hoped to avoid."

"Rachel," he began, unsure what to say to comfort her.

"I have to go— _tonight_ ," she said. "Surely you see that."

"No, I don't, and I'm not going to let you run away, even if I have to stand guard at your door." She smiled faintly at the image of him standing sentry outside her room. He went on, "Nothing's changed. Collinwood is still your home. You belong here." They fell silent for several moments. Quentin broke the silence. "Marry me, Rachel." Her expression spoke her confusion. "I know it's not the kind of proposal a young woman dreams of, but it's sincere. Will you marry me, Rachel?"

"Quentin, how can I?" she answered softly.

Her words stung deep inside. Of course she wouldn't. She knew what he was—that he was no longer like other men. "Because of the _wolf,_ " he bitterly accused her.

She laid her hand on his arm, and sought his eyes with hers. " _No_ , it's because you're only asking me to save me from returning to Reverend Trask and Worthington Hall, or being exposed as a liar and a fraud. It's a gallant gesture, and I do appreciate it, but …"

"I'm not being gallant. I'd be marrying you because … because I can't imagine my life if you're not in it," he told her warmly. "Only you could make me look forward to spending an evening in the drawing room by the fire with my sister. And do you know how my entire day is transformed by a chance meeting, or catching your eye and sharing a private smile. The only real happiness I've experienced lately has been in your company."

"Quentin, I know you're grateful …"

"What I feel is not gratitude for your help. And as much as I loathe him and thought of him anywhere near you, this is not some noble gesture to save you from Trask." He looked despondent. "Still, I see now that it would be unfair to you or any woman."

Rachel felt overwhelmed. A fleeting image of Quentin in the cellar, vulnerable and exposed, came involuntarily to her mind. "I'm not _any_ woman. I've seen the worst. I know what you become, but _you_ are not responsible for that."

"Still, it's unfair to ask you to share a life of uncertainty," he said, disconsolate.

"I believe there's a cure to the curse, Quentin. We'll find it. _Together_."

"So … ?"

"Well, I can hardly leave you to your own devices. Heaven only knows what might happen," she teased, but there an edge of seriousness in her tone as well—she was willing to be at his side, come what may.

"You're saying yes?"

"I guess I am."

"You're saying yes?" he repeated as it settled into his consciousness.

"I'm saying yes!" she confirmed in an excited voice.

Quentin took her in his arms, and lifted her off her feet. Rachel laughed. In spite of everything hanging over them, she was happy—truly happy, perhaps for the first time in her life.

Then he gently set her on her feet, and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. She looked at him, and he saw something different in her eyes, something she'd never allowed him to see before. She cradled his cheek in her hand, rose to her toes, brought her lips to his, and kissed him—fully and deeply.


	16. Chapter 16

The Great House at Collinwood has known more than its share of tragedy, but on this afternoon, two lovers defy this bleak history with a mutual pledge and commitment. While they enjoy this brief interlude of happiness, clouds are gathering that threaten to bring the darkness once more.

Collinwood 1897

"We must tell Judith." Quentin's face still beamed with success.

"Really, Quentin. Is that the first thing you want to do?" Rachel asked in faux exasperation.

"It's the second. I'd like to do the first again," he told her, taking her in his arms and kissing her again.

When she caught her breath, she said, "Perhaps we should tell Judith now. I wouldn't want her to hear from someone else that we're canoodling in the gazebo."

He laughed, "Now there's the proper Rachel Drummond I know and love."

Knowing what was to come, they grew sober and serious though still happy. This feeling—their happiness—was like an unexpected ray of sun that broke through on an otherwise gray day.

* * *

They found Judith still in her study. Quentin knocked this time, and waited until Judith acknowledged him to enter.

"Ah, here you are," Judith began. She invited them to sit. To Rachel she said, "I'm sorry I upset you, Rachel. It was not my intention."

"Judith," Quentin broke in. "We've something to tell you."

"Oh?"

"Well," he suddenly became shy and awkward. "Rachel and I … well, Rachel has agreed to marry me." He finally came out with it.

"Indeed?" Her eyebrows raised and her voice was stern. "Rachel, is this true?"

"Yes, Miss Collins, it is."

Judith kneaded her forehead and temple for a moment without speaking. At last she said, "Quentin, give us a few minutes alone please."

"What? Why?" He showed no sign of leaving.

"Please Quentin. Do as I ask for once," Judith said in apparent frustration.

He turned to Rachel, ready to do her bidding. She gave him an affirmative nod. With that, he stood and stalked from the study.

When he was gone, Judith began, "I'm sorry Rachel. I didn't mean to imply that I wouldn't help you. Of course, I'll do whatever I can for you. If that's the reason you're marrying my brother …"

"It's not. I care deeply for Quentin," Rachel told her.

"I believe you do, but is that enough to sustain you for the rest of your life?" Judith challenged her.

"Yes, I believe so. If I didn't, I wouldn't have agreed to marry him."

"I know you want to see the best in him … " Judith began.

"True, but I also see him for who he is. And in spite of all I know, I still want to marry him. I can guess what you're thinking after everything I told you, but Quentin and I have grown close. We understand one another. We trust one another. As a result, I believe we'll make a good match."

"But do you love him, Rachel? I've not heard you say that you _love_ my brother."

Rachel grew thoughtful and quiet. She began, "I haven't experienced much love in my life—neither familial nor romantic. So I'm not an authority on it." For a moment, she pictured Quentin first as the wolf, fierce and snarling—an ill-tempered beast, and then in the root cellar, the morning after the transformation, vulnerable and subdued—the two sides of Quentin personified. "What we share isn't some grand passion that flames to life and fades as quickly. We're friends and confidants. I can't speak for him, but I feel a pull that's undeniable. And if I had to name it, I'd call it love. So yes, I do love Quentin."

"If you're sure, Rachel— _really sure_ , then I'll be happy for you, and welcome you to the family."

"I am sure, Miss Collins. I've never been more sure of anything than I am of this."

"Then it seems we're to be sisters-in-law. You should call me Judith."

* * *

Judith and Rachel emerged from the study to find Quentin pacing the library next door. Joining him, Judith announced, "So, there's to be a Collinwood wedding at last."

"A _Collinwood_ wedding?" Quentin said and shook his head. He crossed the room and took Rachel's hand. "We thought to marry at once—tonight even. There are justices of the peace who will marry us pending the license."

Judith gave him a withering look, "You'll do nothing of the kind. I'll not have people looking at Rachel in anticipation of an eight-month baby, and I'll not have you sneaking off again as though you're ashamed. This time, Quentin, you will do it right."

Rachel decided to intervene before the discussion went any further. "It needn't be tonight, but …" she thought how the previous night was moonless, signaling that only two weeks or so remained before his next transformation, "we hope to marry soon, within the next two weeks."

"And perhaps by then that odious man will be gone," Quentin added.

"On the contrary," Judith countered. "Perhaps it would be better for Reverend Trask to witness the nuptials. What better way to put an end to both his hopes and threats."

Rachel shivered and her hand went to her throat. "You don't know him as I do. He'll not be easily dissuaded. He'll ruin me if he can—just out of spite. And I'm not sure I can bear to be around him until the wedding takes place."

"The time will pass quickly enough," Judith said sensibly, "and we'll be busy making wedding arrangements. I daresay you'll have few enough opportunities to be importuned by him. I'll see to it."

Rachel's anxieties shifted, "But what about Jamison and Nora? When I marry Quentin, I'll no longer be their governess—all the more reason for Edward to send them away." Her face was awash with concern. "You can't let him send them to Worthington Hall," she pleaded.

"It's alright, Rachel." Quentin let go of her hand, slipped his arm around her waist, and drew her close instead. "One worry at a time, alright? Judith will see to Jamison and Nora. Won't you, Judith?" He looked to his sister for her affirmation.

Seeing Rachel look so distraught, Judith realized at last the depth of feeling she held for Worthington Hall and the Trasks. "Of course. I'll do everything in my power."

* * *

Edward Collins wore his disappointment like a cravat. He deeply believed in the established social order and was consistently disappointed by it. The world—life—had let him down in ways too numerous and fundamental to detail.

He had waited to marry, passing over many of the area's most eligible young women. It wasn't until he'd met a woman of taste, beauty, and wiles that he committed himself to the state of marriage. The marriage bore two children before unraveling in a most ugly and distasteful way. His wife, Laura, grew bored of life at Collinwood, and of him. She turned her attention to his younger brother, Quentin. Outwardly, he would blame Quentin for cuckolding him, but inwardly, he knew it was Laura who seduced his younger brother. He knew from experience that Laura possessed means of seduction that transcended beauty and charm alone. If he, an experienced man of the world, had not been able to resist her, how could Quentin, who was then still young and impressionable? Nonetheless, he viewed Quentin as a physical representation of his disappointment in marriage.

Following the dissolution of his marriage, Edward increasingly absented himself from family life. In truth, it began even before Laura left Collinwood with Quentin in tow. During his marriage, he devoted himself to the mill and the cannery, spending long hours in Collinsport, often staying overnight at the Inn. But after Laura's departure, he added long sojourns to Boston to his repertoire of ways to avoid family obligations. As a result, he knew his children very little, and they likewise found their father to be a near stranger. It was not that he didn't care for them; it was that he greatly preferred the company of other men and the culture of business and work, to hearth and home.

As a young man, he'd been brought up in the certain belief that the family business and estate would be his to superintend—passed to him as the birthright of the eldest son. He would be disappointed in this as well. The salve that he found in absenting himself from the family and Collinwood had provided the opportunity for his sister Judith to supplant him in the eyes of their grandmother. Thus, returning from one of his long stays at his club, he found Judith the established matron of Collinwood—which was made official when their grandmother died and memorialized it in her will. Another sojourn to Boston soon followed.

One afternoon in the game room of his club, he became reacquainted a man who, the last time they met, had been a fellow widower. The man had since remarried, and he and his new wife found they were better suited to life without children. So they arranged for his son to be educated at Worthington Hall. And while Edward deemed education by a governess to be perfectly acceptable for his daughter, he believed that boys required the toughening they received by way of a boarding school education. As proof of this, he looked no further than his own experience. He had been sent away at an age not much older than Jamison was now; his brothers had been educated at home by the same governess that was hired to teach Judith at Collinwood. The results spoke for themselves.

So a letter of introduction was sent to Worthington Hall. Soon after, Edward received a letter of invitation to visit the school. Not long after that, the visit was paid. Initially, it was to be of short duration. But upon finding that Edward had in fact hired his former teacher, Rachel Drummond, the Reverend Gregory Trask, the school's headmaster, was exceptionally welcoming. Edward was given the use of the small guesthouse on the school's grounds. He visited classes taught by Timothy Shaw and Reverend Trask's own daughter, Charity. And he took dinners with the family and teachers. Edward found that though Minerva Trask lacked the elegance, taste, and beauty of his late wife, she ran an orderly home, and attended to the business affairs of the school with evident efficiency.

In the Trasks and Worthington Hall, Edward found the primacy of the established social order he so craved. For his part, the Reverend Gregory Trask found a conduit to the former teacher he so craved. Thus each man found something satisfying and of value in the friendship of the other. Having visited Worthington Hall, Edward was pleased to extend an invitation to his new friend to return with him to Collinwood.

So it was that upon his return, Edward had spent an interminable morning in the company of his children. In the afternoon, he had shown his new friend around the grounds of the estate, before each retired to his room to relax and then dress for dinner. This latter part of his day was Edward's ideal of a masculine life. It came to an abrupt halt when his sister summoned him to the drawing room before dinner.

He arrived to find his sister, as well as Quentin, his children, and the governess all assembled. Rachel sat in the armchair nearest the fireplace; Judith occupied her preferred seat on the davenport; Quentin stood beside Rachel, his back to the fire; and the children played jacks in a corner on the floor.

Seeing him enter, Nora ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist. "Father. Where have you been all afternoon?"

Edward face contorted to a look of guilty annoyance. He asked Judith, "Are the children to dine with us?"

Before she could respond, Nora said, "Oh Father, don't be such a goose. We've already had our supper. Aunt Judith said we should join you just until dinner is served." Edward's face flushed deeply at the thought of his own child calling him a 'goose.'

Judith circumvented the admonishment that was to follow. "I suppose the Reverend Trask will be joining us?"

"Yes," Edward began.

"Please excuse my tardiness, Miss Collins," said Trask as he entered the drawing room.

"Of course," Judith said standing and taking her place beside Quentin in front of the fireplace. "Now that you're here …" She called her nephew to join them, "Jamison, I'd like you to join us." The boy left his game on the floor, and joined the others with a deep, irritated sigh.

"Well, Judith?" Edward asked impatiently.

"I have an announcement to make." Here, she paused dramatically.

Trask began, "Perhaps, I should …" he gestured toward the door.

"No, Reverend Trask—please stay. As the nearest thing Rachel has to _relations_ , you should be here when I announce her engagement to marry my brother, Quentin," Judith said with relish. She took in the effect of her announcement. Quentin moved beside Rachel and laid his hand on her shoulder, and gave it a gentle squeeze. In return, she placed her hand on his.

Edward's entire body stiffened, and his lips were smiling, but his eyes betrayed his true feelings. As for Reverend Trask, his face remained impassive; his eyes, as ever, were malevolent. The children were pure joy—Jamison adopting the mien of an adult, shaking Quentin's hand, Nora wanting to know at once whether she was to be a member of the wedding party.

"Of course, you will," Rachel told her, feeling lighter herself as a result of the child's unbridled enthusiasm.

"When is the auspicious event to take place?" Edward asked with thinly veiled distain.

"In ten days time," Judith announced.

"So soon?" Edward asked, the image of rank seduction in his mind.

"Now that we've found each other, we see no need to wait," Quentin said, glancing down at his intended.

"Indeed," was Edward's response.

Then Judith added, "And of course, we hope that Reverend Trask will stay on as our guest for the nuptials."

"It is only a few more days than my intended visit, but I must write and inform Mrs. Trask. Worthington Hall is a great responsibility. And though I know of no one better able to bear it, I do not want to tax her for too long," Reverend Trask told them.

Judith sighed softly, and said, "Very well then, it's settled."

A short time later, the children went to bed, and the adults moved to the family dining room for dinner. Rachel had been dreading it, but Judith handled it beautifully. She assumed her usual seat at the head of the table; Quentin took the foot of the table. Rachel was seated on one side with Trask to her left; and Edward was seated on the other side of the table opposite them.

Judith then proceeded to engage Trask and Edward in conversation to the extent possible, leaving Rachel and Quentin to their own devices at the far end of the table.

At one point, the conversation lagged, and Edward revived it by asking, "So what is being done to capture the animal or animals attacking with impunity here and in town? The accounts we heard both on the train, and from the driver of our hansom cab were horrific."

Rachel's eyes widened as she turned to Quentin; her face was pale. "There haven't been any attacks lately. Perhaps it or they have moved on to new feeding grounds," Quentin calmly responded.

Undaunted, Edward turned to Judith, "You must have Dirk set traps in the woods."

"Really, Edward. The woods are well traveled. Traps are more likely to injure a member of the family than to trap one of these animals." Judith chastised him.

"These are wily creatures," Quentin began, "They've eluded human contact for so long—other than their victims, of course." Although his countenance remained calm, Rachel could hear the edge in his voice.

Judith unwittingly came to his rescue. "This is hardly appropriate conversation for dinner, Edward. I know you've spent most of the past several months at your club amongst other men, but I try to maintain certain standards, especially at dinner."

"I'm sorry, Judith. We can continue this tomorrow."

Then Judith turned the conversation to other more mundane matters until dinner was over, and it was time to retire to the drawing room.

* * *

The following evening, Barnabas woke as he did nearly everyday to find his morose servant, Sandor, waiting beside his coffin. Though it hardly seemed possible, his servant looked even more dispirited than usual. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, as though he'd been crying.

"What's wrong?" Barnabas asked as he emerged from his coffin.

"Why do you ask?" was Sandor's obtuse response.

"Just tell me," Barnabas snapped impatiently. He waited. "Where's Magda?" he asked.

His servant responded, "Upstairs—packing."

" _Packing_? To go where?"

"Back to our people—in search of King Johnnie."

"But I thought there was bad blood between Magda and your king?" Barnabas asked.

"Aye, but Magda ain't been the same since Jehna died. She won't know no peace nor happiness till she is back among her own. So she must go and atone and ask for forgiveness."

"I see," Barnabas said soberly. He suddenly realized how caught up he'd become in the lives of his two most frequent companions. He'd noticed Magda's descent into unhappiness—how she kept more often to her room, rarely read the cards, or made her characteristic sharp remarks. He had hoped, for Sandor's sake, that she would gradually heal and come back to herself. But he could see now that that hadn't happened, and that her trajectory was a downward spiral. "I'm sorry that you can't go with her, but I can't spare you here. Someone must be here to protect me."

"Aye. I didn't ask," Sandor intoned in a gloomy voice.

"But," Barnabas began, "I could make her stay, if you like."

"Make her like me, you mean?" Sandor asked.

"Yes, if you want her to stay," Barnabas offered.

"Not like that, Mr. Barnabas. No offense, but Magda do need to be free. It's her way. Me, I can live however—answered to Magda most of my life, and now to you. But not Magda—she don't answer to no man—not me, not you, not King Johnnie. She needs to be free."

"How will she go?" Barnabas asked.

"She's a mind to travel by train," Sandor said, picturing his wife working the train—reading cards and telling the fortune of passengers, and trying to avoid the conductor while she traveled all the way to Boston on a ticket to Brunswick. She would stay in Boston just long enough to "find" the money she needed to travel on to New York.

Barnabas sighed and nodded. He noticed that his servant held a note tightly in his oversized fist. "What's that?" he asked his servant.

"It's for you." Sandor held out the letter to his master. "Come from the Great House today."

Barnabas opened the envelope and read the enclosed note. "You should accompany Magda to the train station," he said to Sandor. "I'm going to the Great House, and then into Collinsport. I will see you when I return, sometime before sunrise."

"Nothing amiss at the Great House, I hope," Sandor drawled through thick lips.

"No, nothing amiss," Barnabas responded. "Now go. Give Magda my best wishes for her trip, and tell her I said to return soon—for your sake."

With that, Barnabas watched his servant amble up the basement stairs. He opened the note and read it a second time. Rachel was engaged to marry Quentin. The wedding was to be in little more than a week. He was expected not only for the wedding, but also the evening before for a formal family dinner. _So, it was official_. It should have come as no surprise, given the looks that passed between them, and the obvious signs of affection. And yet, it stung unexpectedly. Was it her resemblance to his beloved Josette that made him feel so? Or was it simply base jealousy of the happiness of young lovers?

It was the last thing Magda needed to hear—that her late sister's husband was to be married again—and so soon after her sister's death. It was better that she left now in ignorance of the coming nuptials.

He folded the note in half and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. He must go and pay his respects. Judith would expect it. It was not devastating—it was merely one more branch of a tree of disappointment and despair that characterized his stay in this era. He'd come with a purpose, and thus far, he'd failed to achieve it, or even to engage it with vigor. With that sense of dissipation, he made his way upstairs, put on his caped coat, took his cane, and headed to the Great House.

* * *

At the Great House, Judith, Quentin, and Rachel gathered in the drawing room to enjoy a pre-dinner sherry, and await Edward and Trask's return from Collinsport.

"I hope you don't mind, but I've sent a note to Cousin Barnabas," Judith told them. "I expect he'll stop by to pay his respects and perhaps join us for dinner."

"I suppose he had to be told," Quentin responded.

"I've also taken the liberty of inviting him to attend the wedding dinner and the ceremony, of course," Judith continued.

"Really Judith," Quentin began, but Rachel stayed him with a gentle touch on his arm.

"He should be here. He's your family," she said. "What's more, I consider him my friend."

Before Quentin could respond, there was a knock on the drawing room door, and the still awkward Elsie announced, "Mr. Collins is here." Barnabas followed her in.

"I've come to extend my best wishes," he said with characteristic formality.

"Thank you, Cousin Barnabas," Quentin said rising from the davenport to greet his cousin, but not before squeezing Rachel's hand and giving her a significant look. "Will you join us in a glass of sherry?" he asked already heading to the liquor cabinet.

"Thank you, yes," was Barnabas's courtly reply. He took a seat in one of the armchairs, and Quentin rejoined Rachel on the davenport.

"Edward has returned home at last," Judith said to Barnabas. "I've no doubt he'll be pleased to meet you. Please stay and join us for dinner."

"I'm afraid I can't. I have an engagement in town this evening," Barnabas said. "Another time perhaps."

"Well, certainly for the wedding dinner the evening before the nuptials," said Judith.

"Yes, certainly. And the wedding itself will be in the family chapel, I suppose," Barnabas asked politely.

"No—we're going to be married right here in the drawing room," Quentin replied. Taking Rachel's hand in his, he continued, "Right here where I first fell in love with her—I believe it was the first time I heard her reading sonnets aloud." She recognized the wry gleam in his eyes. He brought her hand to his lips, and met her slightly chastising eyes with his mischievous ones.

"Quentin, you'll scandalize us all with such talk," Judith admonished.

"On the contrary, Cousin Judith, such sentiments are the very food of love and romance," Barnabas said without a hint of irony.

"You speak from experience, do you Barnabas?" Judith asked in a tone that suggested at once playful ribbing and more than idle curiosity.

"I do, for I was young once, and romantically inclined." Barnabas took a final sip of sherry, draining the glass and setting it aside. Rising, he said, "I sincerely wish you both the best, but now I must take my leave. I'll come again, if time permits. If not, I'll be here for the dinner …"

"And the ceremony?" Judith shamelessly prodded.

"If I can," Barnabas said.

Rachel felt compelled to rescue him by saying, "We know how often business takes you to Bangor. If you can arrange to be available that afternoon, we'll be honored, but don't trouble yourself if you're unable to be here. We won't take offense. Will we, Quentin?"

"No, of course not," was Quentin's stiff reply.

"You are a most gracious bride, Rachel," Barnabas said with a small bow. "Thank you for the sherry," he said to Judith and then headed to the foyer to take his leave.

Just as he reached the foyer, the doors to the Great House opened, and a gentleman entered. It was Barnabas who spoke first, "You must be Cousin Edward. Barnabas Collins at your service." He bowed deeply. The resemblance his cousin bore to his father, Joshua, was striking.

"Cousin Barnabas—a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last," Edward said warmly offering his hand. "Judith has spoken of you at great length. I had intended to stop by the Old House sometime this week to introduce myself."

The sound of footsteps behind him reminded Edward that he was not alone in returning to the Great House. "Excuse my rudeness, allow me to introduce my friend the Reverend …"

" _Trask_ ," Barnabas inadvertently said aloud.

Trask held out his hand. "Are we acquainted, sir? If so, I apologize for not remembering having met before."

Recovering, Barnabas said, "No, we've not met. It's just that you look so much like the portrait of a Reverend Trask in one of the local history books I read recently. Does your family have its roots here?"

"Why, yes," replied Trask. "My family has been in the area since the days of the colonies. I moved further afield and now reside at Worthington Hall. Perhaps you've heard of it."

"I'm afraid not," Barnabas responded.

"You're acquainted with Miss Drummond?" Trask asked.

"Yes, of course."

"Has she never mentioned it? She used to be one of our best teachers. I'm quite proud to say so," said the unctuous Trask.

Barnabas glanced over his shoulder toward the drawing room doors. A _Trask_ here? Perhaps not the same Trask from his own time, but a Trask nonetheless. It was an ill omen. Clearly Rachel was not proud of her connection to Trask or Worthington Hall. Barnabas said simply, "I must take my leave now." He continued to Edward, "I look forward to becoming better acquainted Cousin Edward." And then he left and headed into Collinsport to seek comfort in whatever unsuspecting woman he could find.

* * *

The week passed much as Judith predicted—or perhaps orchestrated. There were few opportunities for Trask to be alone with Rachel for more than a moment or two. And beyond some pointed innuendoes at the dinner table or afterward in the drawing room, he abstained from further threats. Rachel, though she knew Gregory Trask well enough not to trust the situation, at least had reason to hope. It was a new sensation.

Rachel found a good deal of her time taken up with arrangements for the wedding. Though it was to be a simple affair, there was the rector to be consulted, and a trip to Collinsport with Judith and Nora to select dresses. At the dressmaker's shop, Rachel noticed that the lovely damask dress was no longer there. She consoled herself with the knowledge that it wasn't suitable for her wedding anyway. She selected a simple dress of ivory silk. She had intended to devote the majority of her saved earnings to the dress. But Judith had insisted on paying for it, and that Rachel should keep her earnings as a hedge—presumably against Quentin's perfidy or fecklessness, but that went unspoken.

Rachel took the opportunity of their trip into town to return Ben Stokes' diary to Mr. Stokes at the library, while Judith and Nora waited for her at the tea shoppe. "Promise me you'll keep it safe," she said to Mr. Stokes as she handed over the diary, which she'd tucked in amongst the other volumes she was returning.

"We always have—the Stokes family, that is. We've known his secret and protected it all these years," he responded soberly.

She smiled, "Yet it was here on a shelf."

"Waiting for you, my dear," the older man assured her. "It will not be found there again."

* * *

Throughout this time, Rachel had tried to conduct lessons for Jamison and Nora as often as possible. On the morning of the day before her wedding, she adhered to their regular routine. She was in the schoolroom early preparing mathematics drills, and spelling and memorization lessons. She would have lunch with her charges for the last time as their governess.

After lunch, she finished reading a book to them that she had started some weeks before. She had read one chapter each day, denying their entreaties to read more. But today, she read the final three chapters to them in lieu of afternoon lessons.

When she was done, it was time to clean up and dress for her wedding dinner— _her wedding dinner_.

When she arrived at her room, she found a dress box on the bed, with a note on top. She knew it was not her wedding dress, because it had arrived the previous day and was now hanging in her wardrobe. She went to the box, and read the note. Then she excitedly pulled the top off of the box. She lifted the dress out of the box, held it in front of her, and ran to the mirror.

A short time later, she descended the stairs, and entered the drawing room to find Quentin there alone by the fire.

"Quentin …"

He turned to face her. "My god, Rachel. You look stunning, as I knew you would."

She entered the room. He held out his arms to her. She went and stood before him. "It's beautiful. Thank you, Quentin. I don't know how you arranged it …" Her hand caressed the silky, purple damask of the dress's tiered skirt.

He took her hand and then pulled her into his embrace. Then he lifted her chin, and kissed her. It was warm and intimate, and she suddenly worried that her legs would not support her. "Quentin," she whispered. "Someone might come in."

"I don't care if they do. We're going to be married tomorrow, Rachel. I'm finding it difficult to wait."

She smiled, "Indeed." She gently extricated herself from his arms. "I'm afraid I have to leave you for now though."

"Why? Where are you going?" he pressed her.

"I have to go to the Old House to speak to Barnabas— _privately_."

"Barnabas? He'll be here later. Can't you speak to him then?"

"No, not privately," she said, moving toward the foyer to get her shawl.

"Why do you need to speak to Barnabas?" He gave her a disapproving look.

"I've a favor to ask of him. I promise I won't be long." Her smile and the warmth of her eyes disarmed him.

"Should I be jealous that you're seeking out a former suitor on the eve of our wedding day, Miss Drummond?" he asked archly.

"Mr. Collins, I will never give you cause to be jealous," she said, raising to her toes and kissing him lightly on the lips. "Do tell Judith that I'll be home well before dinner."

He watched her cross the foyer, retrieve her shawl from a peg by the door, and leave the house, before returning to the drawing room and pouring himself a drink. A moment later, a figure emerged from the corridor that led to the study, and followed Rachel from the house.

* * *

It was dusk when Rachel arrived at the Old House. She knocked and waited—no answer. She knocked again. This time she heard slow, shuffling feet within. The door opened slowly at last. Behind it, Sandor peered out at her from behind dim eyes. "Mr. Barnabas ain't here," he said, not bothering with a greeting.

"Is he expected back soon?" she asked, knowing all the while where Barnabas would be.

"Suppose so," was Sandor's answer.

"Then I'll wait," Rachel said as she pushed her way into the foyer of the Old House. From there, she went to the drawing room. It was cool and drafty as the fire had been laid but not lit. Sandor followed in her wake.

"No point in waiting. I'll tell him you came by," Sandor stammered.

Rachel ignored this, and perched in one of the drawing room's ornate but uncomfortable chairs. "I'm sure I won't have to wait long," she said. "But may I ask you to light the fire? There's a chill in here."

"Aye," said the servant, and set about lighting the kindling. In a moment, a fire sprung to life. Sandor stood poking at it, encouraging it along.

Then came the sound of the basement door opening and footsteps in the foyer. "Sandor, where are you? Why weren't you …" Barnabas fell silent the moment he saw Rachel in the drawing room.

"Miss Drummond—Rachel—I didn't expect to see you until later this evening. To what do I owe the pleasure, and today of all days?"

"I'd like a word—a private word—with you, Barnabas," she said pointedly looking at Sandor.

"That will be all," Barnabas said to his servant.

"Fire's barely lit," Sandor said dimly.

"It will do," replied his master. "Now go." To Rachel, he added, "May I take your wrap?"

"No, I'll not be staying long," she said, and waited until she saw Sandor departing figure ascending the stairs. She swallowed hard then said, "A glass of sherry or port wouldn't go amiss, if you don't mind my asking, Barnabas."

"Of course. Where are my manners?" he said as he went to pour their drinks. As he did so, he said, "So, it's to be one of those conversations—one for which you must fortify yourself." He handed her the small glass. Then raised his to her, "To your happiness."

They each took the requisite sip. Only then did she come to the purpose of her visit. "Barnabas, I have a confession to make. I came here with ill intentions. I …" She faltered, then began again. "You see, I've learned certain facts about you," she said, not meeting his eyes, "and I came here today with every intention to use them … to do to you what has been done to me … to threaten you, to blackmail and extort you, if need be. But now that the time comes, I find I can't do it. I like you a great deal too much for that."

"Rachel, you're not making any sense," came Barnabas' voice, at once compassionate and frightened.

"I know what you are, Barnabas. I know that you cannot walk in the daylight. I saw you at rest in your coffin during the day. I know that you are a creature of the night." She paused and sipped her sherry, steeling herself again. He could attack her here and now, robbing her of her will, or worse.

"I see," he said calmly. "How long have you known? How did you find out?"

"I've known for some time now, and it doesn't matter how I found out," she said not wanting to implicate Mr. Stokes or put his life at risk.

"If you've decided not to threaten or blackmail me, what do you want?"

"Your help. Please, Barnabas. I'm not asking for myself, but for Quentin. You see I would do anything to help him."

"And what can _I_ do for Quentin? In you, he seems to have what his heart desires."

"But we will forever live under a cloud if you don't help us. Barnabas, Quentin lives under a curse—much like your own. When the full moon rises he is no longer the man I love, he becomes …"

"A beast," Barnabas finished her thought, "A wolf that walks like a man and kills without remorse."

"Yes," she whispered.

"How can I help?" he asked.

"Magda placed the curse on him. Surely she can lift it as well."

" _Magda_?" he said.

"I know that you can bend her to your will, if you haven't already. Please Barnabas—please help him."

"Magda," he repeated absently. "There is nothing I would like more than to help him, but …"

"But what?" Her eyes and voice pleaded with him.

"Magda is gone," he said.

"Gone? Gone _where_? You must bring her back."

"She will come back, in time. Until then, we must make sure the beast is contained."

Rachel's heart sank. She covered her eyes with her hand. It was not what she'd hoped for. Only now did she realize how much she'd pinned her hopes on Barnabas. She rose, ready to leave. "You mustn't tell Quentin that you know."

"Why not? I can help you."

"He'll be furious that I told you," she said urgently. "I asked him to plead with Magda himself, or to ask you to intervene on his behalf. He refused. I should have honored his wishes. It's no way to begin our life together—with duplicity." Her words came out in a rush.

Barnabas could see from her manner and expression how deep the connection ran between her and his cousin. He said, "We'll keep this between us, but I'll help in whatever way I can."

"Thank you Barnabas. I must get back now."

"I have a few matters to attend to here, but I'll gladly accompany you back afterward," he offered.

She demurred. "I must get back straightaway. I'm expected. But I do look forward to seeing you later."

"Rachel? One final question …"

"Yes?"

"You said that you came here to do to me what was done to you. Who threatened you?"

"Gregory … Trask. But he'll be gone soon, and once I marry Quentin, I'll be beyond his reach."

"I see," Barnabas said knowingly. He walked her to the door. "I'll see you later this evening, my dear. Rest easier knowing that a trouble shared is a trouble halved."

* * *

It was dark as Rachel left the Old House and headed down the path back to the Great House. Others might tread the woods in fear, but she now knew the identity of both "animals" that stalked the woods and town. She felt safe … and yet, she felt unsettled. There was the crack of a twig, the crackle of dry leaves.

"Barnabas?" she called softly. "Sandor?" There was no response. A moment later, she distinctly heard footfall beside her in the woods. "Who's there?" she said.

"Do not be afraid, Rachel. It is I, Gregory." He stepped out onto the path.

"What do you want?" she said at once. "What are you doing here? Did you follow me here?"

"I only want to speak to you, my child."

"I am not your _anything_ , Gregory," she said with force. "Not anymore."

"Rachel," he said soothingly. "I only want to speak to you. You've afforded me no opportunity this past week to speak with you alone, so yes, I followed you."

"And what do you want?" she asked sharply.

"Please Rachel. I've come to make peace between us. Have you not marked how I have kept your secret— _our_ secret—rather than use it against you? Surely you credit me for that."

"That was to your advantage as well. If the whole story came into the light, how would you appear to your new friend, Edward? So, yes Gregory, I credit you for protecting me, as well as yourself. What do you want?"

His face was ashen, dark circles ringed his eyes. "I want us to be reconciled, Rachel. I want us each to renounce the wickedness that threatens to consume us."

"I was innocent when I first came to you and Worthington Hall. If I am wicked, it is you who made me so—you and your wife."

"I believe it is your nature," he countered, in a stern voice.

"I was a _child_ , Gregory. Are children not innocent?" she asked heatedly. "You say that you would like us to be reconciled, but how can we be reconciled when you refuse to acknowledge all that stands between us. For my part, I feel ashamed of the steps I took to achieve my ends."

He was visibly angry for a moment. His eyes narrowed at her in a most familiar way. "But not of the ends themselves," he said angrily. Then he turned away from her. When he turned back his expression had softened. He looked resigned, almost sad. "I have asked _him_ for his divine guidance. I have asked how I am to purge this desire for you that I harbor in my heart," Trask said. "There, I have said it. If it is honesty you want, I have given it to you. Now, I beg you, return with me, Rachel. Do not marry this man to punish me."

He was stripped bare at last. For so long, she wanted nothing more than to expose him for the hypocrite she knew him to be. But now after wanting the truth from him, she found it no longer mattered. "I'm sorry, Gregory. You misunderstand me. I _love_ Quentin. Do you think that I would promise myself to him simply to punish you? If you care for me, as you claim to, you will see and recognize something different in me. I'm happy. For the first time in my life, I'm truly happy. If you care for me as you say you do, isn't that what you want for me—to love and be loved?"

"Rachel, please … do you _truly_ love him?" he challenged her. "Or is it merely a marriage of convenience? Have you merely grown accustomed to the comforts of Collinwood? And marrying Quentin will afford you those comforts."

"I _love_ him, Gregory." She was adamant.

"Was a life of righteousness and service at Worthington Hall so bad?" he implored. He seemed so genuine that she almost believed he was being sincere.

"I would have welcomed a life of righteousness and service had it not been coupled with cruelty and hypocrisy."

"Cruelty? I do what is necessary to save souls," he retorted warmly. That was the Gregory Trask she knew. "As to the hypocrisy, how dare you lay that at my feet?"

"You broke spirits, not saved souls. I should know. I was one of them. And yes, you're a hypocrite. All it took was one look at Minerva's face to know the truth of it."

"Minerva does not always cleave to her wifely duties as a woman should. Knowing you as I do, I suspect you will make an altogether different sort of wife."

"Yes, I will … for _Quentin_. But now I must get back. Judith won't forgive me for being late to my own wedding dinner."

As she walked past him on the lane, she could see the glint of something shiny in the semi-darkness. He grabbed her arm, pulled her close, and then she felt it—not a stab, but slash across her abdomen, then a second one. She crumpled. Her hands went to her midsection.

"I asked for _his_ guidance, but I received none. He has abandoned me—and now you want to abandon me too? I cannot bear it. I won't." He turned her to face him. He raised the knife again, slashing at her throat, but found her chest just below her collarbone instead.

She felt the warm ooze of blood between her fingers. Her nostrils filled with the metallic smell of it.

She collapsed backward. He knelt over her—his eyes a mixture of tears and mania. He contorted his hand into a crude approximation of an animal's claw, and drew it sharply across her face. It was a mere sting compared to the deep burning sensation beneath her hands.

Now his tears fell. "I am sorry, Rachel. I cannot bear to see you marry such a man. I cannot bear to see you _marry_ …" His voice broke as he sobbed. He raised the knife.

"Rachel?" came Quentin's voice through the woods. "Rachel?"

Trask seemed to come back into himself. He looked up toward the sound of Quentin's voice. Rachel closed her eyes, stilled her movement, and played dead. She could hear him retreating quickly through the woods.

"Rachel?" She could hear Quentin's voice and finally his footsteps advancing toward her.

"Quentin! I'm here." Was it her voice? It sounded as she did as a child—high and light. Then, she was in the closet again—banging on the door, calling, pleading until her voice failed her. "I'm here." Had she said it aloud? Or was it only in her mind? Through the pain, she could not be sure.

But then, he was with her. The look in his eyes told her all she needed to know. The pain she felt as he lifted her into his arms was nothing to what she felt when she looked into his eyes. There was something he needed to know— _had_ to know. "Trask," she whispered. He had to know. " _Trask_ ," she said again.


	17. Chapter 17

Impenetrable fog shrouds the Great House at Collinwood, obscuring not only the landscape, but also the answers one woman is seeking. Shaken by ominous dreams of death, Maggie Evans questions the reasons for going forward with her search for answers, even as she almost unwillingly continues to seek them.

The light came on in the Collinwood library. Maggie Evans looked up to find Elizabeth Stoddard at the light switch. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to read in the dark?" Mrs. Stoddard asked.

"Pop used to say it all the time," Maggie answered, remembering her father's exasperated face each time he'd find her reading in dim light. "I guess I got so caught up in reading, I didn't noticed how late it's gotten. It was the same when I was a girl."

"And what has you so preoccupied today?" the older woman asked as she entered the library. She looked at the stack of books on the table beside the young governess. "Collins family history?"

"Yes, I'm thinking of putting some lessons together for the children, linking broader historical events to the family history," was Maggie's plausible and somewhat rehearsed response.

"I see. It sounds interesting—a way to make history more immediate."

"Exactly."

"And what period are you proposing to study?" Mrs. Stoddard asked, hovering over Maggie's shoulder.

"The 19th century—the latter half."

"Hmmm. Victorianism—an interesting time."

"Do you know much about the family that occupied Collinwood then?" Maggie probed, hoping for clues to narrow her research.

"Not really. It's a pity Barnabas is away. That man is a fount of family knowledge."

"Yes, I feel certain he could help," Maggie murmured in response.

"Well, I came in search of the book, I was reading last night," Elizabeth said taking a volume from one of the shelves. "I'll leave you to your research."

Once alone, Maggie sighed and closed the volume in front of her. Why was she doing this? Why not leave it alone? She closed her eyes momentarily. The image came to her unbidden—her in the 19th century purple dress, covered in blood. _Surely it must be a warning—an omen of something ill._ She could not purge the image from her mind—try as she might. As much as she wanted to abandon this absurd quest to find the identity of the man in her dreams, she now believed the answer would bring her relief—relief from the dreams, and relief from the relentless images that haunted her waking hours as well.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

Quentin would never be sure exactly what drove him from the house that evening—what prompted him to go in search of Rachel. Certainly it was not some premonition of ill, nor was it fear of perfidy, nor jealousy. He supposed it was impatience—nothing more. Once she left, he had paced the drawing room, listened to the clock chime, and waited for the sound of her return. He was a man on the eve of his wedding, looking forward to being with the woman who inexplicably was willing to spend her life with him.

So he'd left the Great House and headed down the path toward the Old House, in hope of meeting her on her way back, and if not, in hope of escorting her home and stealing a few moments alone with her before wedding customs and rituals denied him further access to her until the morrow.

He could already hear her gentle chastisement—already picture the expression on her face that would tell him that there was no need for his impatience, but that she was flattered by it nonetheless. But nothing he pictured or imagined prepared him for what awaited him on the path that evening.

* * *

Quentin arrived at the Great House, Rachel in his arms, and found he'd left the door ajar. With a swift kick, he pushed it open. "Judith!" he called, as he carried the now-limp Rachel into the drawing room. "Judith!" he called again loudly. "Judith!" He gently laid Rachel on the davenport.

"Quentin, what is it?" came Judith's reproving voice from the doorway. Stepping into the drawing room and seeing Rachel stayed her incipient chastisement. "No!"

"Call Dr. Woodard," Quentin said as panic took his voice. "Now please!"

Judith went at once to the telephone. Quentin could hear her voice as if in a dream. He knelt beside Rachel taking her sticky, blood-covered hand in his. "Rachel, don't leave me. Please don't leave me." Her blood continued to ooze from her wounds, saturating her dress. He put his forehead to hers.

Rachel whispered, "If I could, I'd stay with you forever, as I promised I would when I agreed to be your wife."

"Press the hem of her dress to the wound until the doctor arrives," Judith ordered.

Quentin absently did as he was told. He felt numb—empty inside. "I can't face it without you, Rachel," he murmured in her ear.

"I love you, Quentin," she whispered. "I should have told you before …" Her eyes closed.

"And I love you, Rachel." Her hand gave a small spasm, then fell still.

"Quentin keep pressure on her wounds," Judith ordered again.

"It no longer matters," he said. "She's gone."

"No!" In tending to practical matters, Judith held her tears at bay. Now, she let them flow.

"What is all this ruckus about?" Edward asked as he approached through the drawing room doors.

"Get out," Quentin said. " _Get out_!" he bellowed loudly then dissolved into tears. "Get out," he said again through his tears.

Edward's face went white at the sight of so much blood. Judith ushered Edward out into the foyer and closed the doors behind them.

The Great House, only moments before preparing for a joyful event, was once again plunged into mourning.

* * *

For Judith, each moment that passed seemed like an hour. For the first time, she entertained the notion that her family truly was cursed. She knew it was what the townsfolk in Collinsport believed and said behind her back. She knew they believed that the curse had played itself out over several generations. And now, she too believed that whatever darkness it was that haunted her family, was at work again, depriving them of peace and happiness. It was a heavy burden indeed.

Each time she had to utter the words, "Rachel is dead," it weighed on her heart, and threatened to bring on a fresh torrent of tears. The first time she was forced to speak it aloud was to Edward.

"It appears to be another animal attack," she told her brother.

"I said all along more should be done to capture and kill the animal or animals responsible for these attacks," Edward began.

" _Now_ is not the time for recriminations, Edward." Judith worked to maintain some composure. "Our guests will be arriving shortly expecting a happy event, and the children must be told. I will wait here and meet our guests. You must go and tell Jamison and Nora. Nora will take it especially hard." More tears began to silently fall. Edward gave her his handkerchief.

"I hardly know what to say to them, Judith." Edward was mid-sentence when the door of the Great House opened. "Gregory, where have you been?"

Though it was not yet cool outside, the reverend had his cloak pulled tightly around him. He held it closed from the inside, as one would on a bitterly cold evening. "I've been out for a walk and quiet meditation. I found I needed to clear my head in advance of tonight's social activities …"

Edward broke in. "You must prepare yourself for a shock. Miss Drummond—Rachel …" Edward said, "is dead."

Trask turned away. It was a moment of reckoning for him. A part of him wanted to confess all—to tell them that he was the instrument that called Rachel to account—to account to him, if not to their maker. But another part, the larger part, did not believe that he should be held responsible for what happened. After all, it was Rachel's betrayal that provoked him; it was her—her looks, touches, kisses—that should have been his that she instead bestowed on someone else, that drove him to it. In the end, he asked, "How? How could such a thing happen? And today of all days."

"She fell victim to one of the animals stalking the woods," Edward said.

As he turned back to face them, a whisper of a smile crossed his lips. He was free. "I must see her," he said.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Judith said flatly. "My brother is with her. The doctor has been called; we expect him shortly."

"Yes, I understand," Trask replied, as malice replaced the few tears that had come to his eyes. "I will retire to my room for prayers."

"Obviously there is to be no dinner tonight. I'll have a tray sent up to your room later, Mr. Trask," Judith told him.

"Thank you, Miss Collins," Trask said, bowing formally, and taking his leave of them.

A moment later, Edward followed Trask upstairs. He would gather Jamison and Nora and tell them the news. Judith could hear Nora's shrill wailing all the way in the foyer, where she waited both for Dr. Woodard to arrive, and to break the news to Evan Handley and her cousin when they arrived. She knew that Edward's task was far worse. Nora was fragile and would be inconsolable after yet another loss. Jamison would put on a brave face as an example for his sister, but no doubt bore as many internal scars. Judith often wondered when and how her nephew's pain would manifest itself, as surely it must.

Dr. Woodard arrived a short time later. She filled him in on what transpired including that Rachel had expired some time ago. He asked Judith to secure some sheets, and went into the drawing room.

Judith went to the servants' hall both to inform the servants of Rachel's death, and to get the needed sheets. It was only then that she remembered that the household staff was still busy making its final preparations for the wedding dinner. She began the announcement is a strong, authoritative voice. "There is to be no wedding dinner this evening," she began. Mrs. Dunn, the housekeeper, couldn't keep a triumphant look from her face. But it was soon to dissolve, when Judith continued, "Rachel was attacked and killed in the woods this evening."

Elsie took it the hardest, weeping openly. Mrs. O'Neill tried to comfort her. "I'll need some sheets," Judith said. Seeing that Elsie was in no state to help, Mrs. Dunn went and returned a moment later with an armful of sheets. Judith took them from her.

Dirk surprisingly stepped forward, "I speak for all of us. We're truly sorry about Rachel, and for you and Mr. Collins. It's time we caught and killed the animal responsible for these attacks. I promise we will redouble our efforts."

"Thank you, Dirk," was all Judith could manage as she struggled to maintain her bearing before the staff.

Having delivered the sheets to Dr. Woodard in the drawing room, all that remained was to await her other guests and deliver the sad news.

* * *

Quentin heard the drawing room doors open. He was still on his knees beside Rachel's lifeless body. He still held one of her hands in his; the other hand caressed her cheek. He felt a hand on his shoulder—a man's hand squeezed it strongly. "Let me tend to her, Quentin," the man said. It was Dr. Woodard.

"Surely, Judith told you she's beyond your help or anyone else's."

"Yes, but there are things that must now be done," the doctor said soberly.

"Yes. Give me a moment," Quentin said, his eyes never leaving Rachel's face. He looked at her face, now marred by scratches intended to mimic those of the wolf. Quentin remembered how she looked earlier that evening stripped of her naïve, innocent façade, and more beautiful for it. She was a woman in love—a woman on the cusp of becoming his wife. He thought now of the anticipation that crackled between them. They did not have nearly enough time together. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. "Goodbye, Rachel."

With that, he assisted the doctor in wrapping her gently in a sheet. He waited while the doctor called into town to send word to the undertakers that they were needed once again at the Great House.

* * *

Judith waited in the foyer lest anyone come in and disturb Quentin and Dr. Woodard. Evan Handley arrived first. He was shocked at the news, and sought to confirm that it was an animal attack that killed her. "Are you certain?" he asked Judith. His eyebrows were drawn together in skepticism and disbelief.

"I'm afraid so," Judith said. She looked shaken—her eyes red-rimmed, and her face ashen.

He asked, "May I speak with Quentin to offer my condolences?"

"Tomorrow, Evan. Understandably, he's taking it very hard." She blotted her own eyes with the twisted-up handkerchief that she'd been absent-mindedly been turning again and again in her hands. "I think it best to wait until tomorrow."

"Of course," Evan told her. He approached her and took her by the shoulders. Meeting no resistance, he kissed her on the cheek. "I'm so very sorry, Judith. I know she was your friend as well as Quentin's intended. I know that you'll feel the loss too."

"Thank you, Evan," she choked out through the threat of more tears. "Promise me you'll return tomorrow?"

"Of course. I promise."

A short time later, when Barnabas arrived, Judith was sitting unceremoniously on the steps in the foyer. She felt as though she lacked the will to move. Barnabas had never seen her thus. He went to her at once, and went on one knee before her. "Judith, what's wrong? Are you unwell?" he asked gallantly.

"No, Barnabas. You must prepare yourself for bad news. It's Rachel."

"Rachel?" he repeated.

"Yes—she's dead," Judith choked out, giving way to tears again.

Barnabas stood, towering above Judith. "She can't be dead. She just left the Old House a short while ago. How did it happen?"

"An animal attack in the woods," Judith told him.

" _An animal attack_ ," Barnabas repeated, incredulous.

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"I should never have let her leave alone, but she … she …"

"What?"

"She felt safe, and she was anxious to be back in advance of dinner," he said. "Still, I feel responsible."

"No one will hold you so, not even Quentin." Judith tried to console her disconsolate cousin.

"I must speak to Quentin," Barnabas said. "It's important."

"He and Dr. Woodard are in the drawing room. I expect the undertakers' wagon any moment now. You're welcome to wait, but I doubt Quentin will be decent company."

"What I have to say won't take long," Barnabas said closely observing his cousin's countenance. She usually had an almost regal bearing, but now it was clear the toll that recent events had taken on her.

"You're welcome to wait in the library," Judith said.

He took a seat beside her on the stairs. "I'll wait with you until the undertakers arrive, or I don't mind meeting them myself, and you can retire."

She put a hand on his arm. Under normal circumstances, such an intimate gesture would have been out of the question for her. "Thank you, Barnabas, but I should be here to meet them. I'd appreciate your company while I wait."

* * *

Later that evening, the undertakers arrived and Judith oversaw the arrangements for removing Rachel's body from the drawing room. She managed to keep her emotions tightly controlled in front of the townsmen, giving direction with authority. Dr. Woodard escorted the undertakers. Once they were gone, she told Barnabas that she was going to retire. Quentin had yet to emerge from the drawing room.

"Do you think I should look in on him?" Barnabas asked Judith.

"Perhaps …" she began as she headed wearily up the stairs. "Goodnight, Barnabas. I trust we will see you again tomorrow."

"Of course." He bowed deeply and watched her as she departed.

He turned to the drawing room. He knocked softly and received no answer, but a moment later the doors opened.

Quentin, seeing his cousin still there, said, "I thought Judith sent everyone away. What are you still doing here?"

"I'm hoping to have a word with you, Quentin."

"A _private_ one, like you did with Rachel before she …" His voice broke.

"Yes. I wouldn't intrude on your grief if it wasn't important."

"Very well. Follow me." He led Barnabas upstairs to his west wing apartment. He carried a full bottle of brandy in one hand. Upon arriving, he wasted no time in asking, "Care to join me?" He indicated that he was about to pour another glass of brandy.

"Yes, please."

Quentin handed Barnabas a full glass, then stood with his back to his cousin and asked, "So, what is so important, Cousin Barnabas? Why did Rachel go to see you?"

"She came to ask a favor of me—and in the process, she told me … what you've _become_."

Quentin turned to face his cousin. "I told her not to. She had no right. I wish she were here. I'd take her by the shoulders and … and …" He broke down in tears. Fury, helplessness, longing—were manifest in his countenance. He turned to the fireplace and threw his glass into it—the brandy igniting and sparking brightly.

"Perhaps not, but you see, she knew something about me—something that ensured that your secret would be safe with me—as I am that my secret will be safe with you. You see I too live under a curse—one that was placed on me more than a century ago."

"What are you talking about Barnabas? Speak plainly," was Quentin's short-tempered response.

"Plainly speaking—I am a vampire. I live by night; I sleep by day. Human blood sustains me."

"You are responsible for the attacks in town," Quentin said in an accusatory tone.

"Yes, but I kill because I must—to survive. And somehow, Rachel learned the truth about me. She came to the Old House this evening to leverage what she knew, but in the end, her kindness won out and instead she pleaded with me to help you."

"To speak to Magda about lifting my curse…"

"Yes—more than speak to Magda—to use my powers as a vampire—to put her in my thrall—to _make_ her do my bidding."

"And will you?" Quentin asked, almost indifferent to the response.

"I'm afraid Magda is no longer at the Old House—or indeed on the Collinwood estate. She's gone in search of her gypsy king."

"No matter. I have more important things to attend to."

"Of course. Rachel is not yet laid to rest. And yet the full moon is not far off. Perhaps, I can help in some other way."

"No thank you, Cousin. I'll make my own arrangements."

"Have a care, Quentin, of Reverend Trask."

"Trask? It is he who should have a care of me."

"And why is that?"

"Rachel's death will forever be attributed to an animal attack. But you did not kill her, and I couldn't have. She said his name when I found her in woods. There was fear and pain in her eyes, but conviction in her voice. It was him—and he will pay for what he's done."

* * *

Though dawn brought a new day to the Great House at Collinwood, a pall enveloped the estate.

Still in his shirtsleeves, Quentin took the back stairs to the family dining room and found it empty. Breakfast had been laid, and others had already eaten. The smell of it made his stomach lurch. Brandy had failed him last night. He had asked it to take his pain, his memories, and his shattered hope and expectation, for just one night, but it had not obliged. Instead, there were no dreams, no peaceful moments of oblivion, just the mind-numbing grief and pain. Again and again, the image of Rachel's bloodied lifeless body invaded his mind. He could not drive it out.

When dawn broke as dull and gray as his mood, he knew what must be done. All that remained was to decide how best to do it. He went in search of his sister, knowing that whatever else needed to be done, he must first see to Rachel's burial.

Crossing the foyer, he noticed the doors to the drawing room slightly ajar. He stopped and peeked in. Elsie was weeping softly as she tried to clean bloodstains that no amount of scrubbing would remove. He swallowed down the emotions that threatened to spill out unchecked.

In the distance, Quentin heard muffled voices from the direction of the library. He moved toward them, stopping in the corridor just outside the library.

"I find I no longer understand you, Judith," Edward said. "This is Quentin we're talking about. He'll be over her in a day or two, and in pursuit of another member of our household staff."

"I understand your cynicism, Edward, but this was different. I truly believe Quentin has changed," Judith countered.

"Nevertheless, the girl is dead and we must consider …"

"The girl's name is … _was_ Rachel," Quentin said, barging in on his siblings. "Her name was Rachel," he repeated, holding back tears.

"Still listening at keyholes," Edward began, "just as you did as a boy." To Judith, he added, "Changed? Hardly!"

"That's enough—both of you," Judith intervened. "Today is difficult enough without your endless bickering."

Edward said, "The fact remains that arrangements must be made. Gregory—Reverend Trask—would like her buried at a cemetery near Worthington Hall. He is prepared to accompany her body by train tomorrow."

" _Never_! I absolutely forbid it." Quentin turned his angry eyes toward his brother. "She'll be buried here—at Eagle Hill Cemetery."

"Is the Collins family plot to be filled with Quentin's late wives, fiancés, and lovers?" Edward fumed to Judith.

Quentin charged forward angrily, but Judith moved quickly to restrain him. She turned to Edward, "I'll not have you speak about Rachel like that. She was here caring for your children while you've been away for months. She's been a companion and friend to me, and a member of our family. And she'll be buried here at Collinwood. That's the end of the discussion."

"Judith, it must be tomorrow. We must bury her tomorrow," came Quentin's voice, emotion bubbling beneath its surface.

"Why, Quentin? Will one more day …"

"I can't bear the waiting," he said emphatically. "Tomorrow. You'll see to it, won't you, Judith?"

In that moment, his voice reminded her so much of Quentin as a boy. She was so much older than he, that her feelings for him were almost maternal at times. Though he was reckless, thoughtless, and infuriating, he had always been vulnerable too. He was ever the youngest son who had too little time with his parents before they died, and too much time with a grandmother and siblings ill-suited to raise him. Now, at last, he had found something—someone—to help ground him, to cure him of his fecklessness, and she too, was taken from him. Judith felt his pain acutely.

"Of course, if it's what you want."

"It is." Then to Edward, he added, "Trask is welcome to stay for the burial."

Judith immediately asked, "Are you sure?"

"I insist. He should be here to see her laid to rest. The rector will conduct the service, but perhaps Trask would like to say a few words about Rachel, as he's known her for so long."

Edward looked chastened. "Thank you, Quentin. I'm sure it will mean a great deal to him. And, I'm sorry for my rash words a moment ago."

"Never mind, Edward. Emotions are running high."

"Did you get any sleep?" Judith asked her youngest brother.

"Not really," Quentin replied as he ran a hand across his face.

"Why don't you try and get some rest?" Judith told him.

"No. I …" How could he tell her that he couldn't close his eyes again and face the prospect of seeing Rachel's mutilated body in his mind's eye. "I'd like her to be buried in the dress she would have worn today," Quentin told his sister. "And," he reached in his pocket and drew out a thin gold ring, "I'd like her to wear this, on her right hand, I suppose." He placed it in Judith's hand.

She looked at it. "You should have asked me. Grandmamma had many rings. I would have given you one for Rachel."

Edward made a small noise, as though clearing his throat, but said nothing.

"This was what I could afford on the meager allowance that Grandmamma left me, and Rachel would have preferred that." He added, "It would have suited her better than any of Grandmamma's fine jewels."

"Of course, you're right," Judith responded as she turned the thin ring between her fingers. "I'll see to the arrangements. Why don't you freshen up and dress for the day—difficult as it is."

Quentin's mind now registered that his siblings each dressed in the somber garb of mourning. Judith wore a simple, yet elegant, day-dress of black silk. Edward eschewed his typical tweeds for a black suit with a long jacket. Quentin looked down and took stock of himself. He wasn't fit to be seen, and yet he cared little. Still, he had his own arrangements to make, even as Judith tended to ones most dear to him. "Yes, I'll dress, and then I must see Evan."

"Evan? Now?" Judith was clearly surprised.

"Yes, I have important business with him, but I'll not be away long." With that, Quentin took leave of his sister and brother.

* * *

Once Quentin left the library, Judith turned her attention to the personal matters of her other brother. "Where are Jamison and Nora? I would like to spend some time with them today. It must be incredibly difficult for them, especially Nora," she began.

"They're well looked after at the moment," Edward told her. "Reverend Trask offered to lead them in prayer and lessons this morning. They're in the schoolroom now. In fact, I am thinking of sending them both to Worthington Hall. They can accompany Reverend Trask when he returns. Under the circumstances, I believe it's for the best."

Color rose in Judith's cheeks. "What? You'll do no such thing." Judith was emphatic.

"Need I remind you that they are _my_ children, and I will do what I think is best for them."

"Worthington Hall is not what's best for them, especially now."

"And Collinwood is? Think, Judith! Think how our governess was killed. What if Jamison or Nora falls prey to whatever creature is stalking the woods?"

"Rachel was only vulnerable because Barnabas allowed her to leave unescorted. The children will be safe here. I'll see to it. Besides, it's too soon for them to leave."

"Too soon for who—them or for you?" Edward challenged her.

"Fine—I'll say it if I must. I don't think Worthington Hall is a suitable school for Jamison—and certainly not for Nora."

"What do you mean? Based on what? I can only assume something Miss Drummond told you."

"Yes …" Judith began.

Edward cut her off, "And naturally you believe her."

"I do, as it happens."

"Well, I have just completed a visit there myself and found the children to be well-behaved and disciplined. I don't know what Miss Drummond said, and I don't care to. Nora and Jamison are _my_ children. _I_ know what is best for them—and that is the end of it," Edward bellowed, his color rising to match Judith's.

Judith drew in a deep breath and readied herself to deliver what she believed would be the coup de grace to his unsupportable idea. "Very well, Edward. They are _your_ children, and if you wish to send them to Worthington Hall, I can do nothing to stop you. You should, however, be prepared to pay for it with the allowance that Grandmamma left you."

"But the governess has always been paid with household funds. You know that my allowance was intended for my personal expenses."

"Yes, such as your club and travel. I am happy to continue to pay for a governess, but not Worthington Hall. The Trasks will never receive a cent as long as I am mistress of this house. And the Trasks don't seem the type to accept a child without significant resources to support it. If you think I'm wrong about that, you should ask him," Judith said, relishing every word before swept past him and out the door.

* * *

It was late morning, yet still early to expect to see Quentin, when he arrived at Evan Handley's door. The family counsel answered his knock dressed for the day, save for his jacket. He held a napkin in his hand, and it was clear that he was still at breakfast.

"Come in," Evan said. "I was on my way to the Great House myself this morning."

Quentin followed him into the dining room. Evan had in fact just finished his morning meal, but offered, "Have you eaten? I can have …"

Quentin waved off the incipient offer. "I'm not hungry, thank you."

"Coffee then? Or something stronger?"

"Coffee is fine," Quentin said, taking a seat at the small dining table.

As Evan poured a cup of coffee and placed it in front of his friend, he said, "Keeping a clear head today. That's wise."

Quentin sighed deeply and began, "She's to be buried tomorrow. Here at Eagle Hill Cemetery. I hope you'll be there."

"Of course. She was a lovely young woman, Quentin. I know your grief is still raw, but …"

Quentin interrupted him. "I'm here on a different matter, Evan. I need your help. Tomorrow is the full moon."

"Yes, of course. You'd like me to cast the spell of the pentagram to hold the wolf," he said with a slight question in his voice.

Quentin downed the coffee. It was lukewarm, and bitter from sitting too long. He found it well suited to his need. "No. I want you to lock me in the root cellar as Rachel did."

Evan stood and indicated with a nod of his head that Quentin should follow him into his private study. Once there, Evan closed the doors. "The pentagram spell will be safer, Quentin. I'm sure Edward will arrange hunting parties to search the woods, in the wake of Rachel's death. Getting you in and out of the cellar could be challenging."

"It must be the cellar!" was Quentin's emphatic response. "I'm sure the men will start searching after dark. You must lock me in before sunset, and then return in the early morning once the men have gone home to their beds."

Evan sighed. "I suppose it could work, but if I'm caught …"

"You were out searching like everyone else."

Evan's skepticism persisted. "And how will you explain your absence to Judith, Edward, and the others?"

"My dear Evan, for once my reputation as a feckless drunk will work to my advantage, for everyone will expect that …" Here his voice broke. "I'll be drowning my sorrow." He wanted to let it all pour out—how grief and bitterness were the dual flames animating his existence. Instead he said, "One more thing …"

"What's that?"

"I'll go to the cellar on my own in the late afternoon. When you come, open the doors, raise the ladder, and then lock me in. In the morning, unlock the doors, lower the ladder, and leave. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but …"

"Evan—please do this for me," Quentin said with a serious mien.

Evan thought of all that his friend had endured—and more, of what was to come. "Of course, Quentin—whatever you need."

A short time later, having confirmed all the details with his friend, Quentin returned to the Great House through the same woods where Rachel met her brutal end.

* * *

The next day dawned under a dark gray sky that yielded a steady heavy drizzle. The Collins family assembled that morning in the foyer of the Great House. From there, they made their way to the cemetery.

Graveside, Quentin stood with Judith on his arm, and Jamison at his other side. Edward stood just behind them, holding Nora's small hand in his. Beside them, the Reverend Gregory Trask stood rehearsing the words with which he would memorialize Rachel Drummond—to the end, the temptation he could never master.

Evan Handley, Mr. Stokes, and all of the household staff joined them. Later Quentin would realize that his conscious mind did not register a single word of what was said, either by the rector or the loathsome Trask. He remembered feeling Judith's grip on his arm tighten as Trask was speaking, but his mind was otherwise occupied with what had happened to take Rachel from him, and what was yet to be done about it.


	18. Chapter 18

The Great House at Collinwood casts a long shadow that spans from a dark, mysterious past to its uncertain and often turbulent present. For one young woman, the estate's past infiltrates her dreams again and again. Maggie Evans has repeatedly dreamt of a mysterious stranger with ties to the Collinwood estate. Now, only medication that induces a heavy sleep state keeps the strange, tantalizing dreams at bay—or at least prevents her conscious mind from recalling them. Still, she wakes daily with a sense—an awareness—of her nightly visitations.

No longer content to wonder about the stranger's identity and his connection to the Collins family, at Dr. Julia Hoffman's suggestion, she has undertaken research to find answers at last.

On this day, her research has taken her to the Collinsport library to peruse microfilm of old editions of the _Collinsport Star_. The librarian, though eyeing her warily, returned with several rolls of microfilm of newspapers from the 1890s, and showed her how to use the film reader.

Maggie inserted the first roll of film into the reader and scrolled through the first newspaper dated January 1893. It was a perfect time capsule of life in Collinsport. And while looking at stories about carriage accidents and Collinsport's local theater acts was of interest, Maggie realized that it was a needle-in-a-haystack search she'd undertaken. But the Collins family histories proved incomplete. In one, several pages had been carefully removed, probably with a razor. And of course, it was for the very period she was interested in. It was helpful, in that it narrowed her focus to one ten-year period. She sighed aloud.

"Research is always painstaking and time-consuming," came a familiar voice from behind her.

She turned and smiled. "How are you, Professor Stokes?"

"I'm well, my dear. May I join you?" he asked, indicating the wooden library chair beside her.

"Please."

He squeezed his large frame into the chair beside her, and looked at the image on the reader's screen in front of her. "Ah, the _Collinsport Star_ , circa 1890," he said.

"1893 to be exact," she supplied.

"May I ask what your interest is? If I'm not prying, that is." Professor Stokes was a heavy, jowly man, with serious eyes, and a rich, distinctive voice.

Maggie hesitated. She knew that half the town already thought of her as crazy Maggie Evans, the girl who went missing and returned a little touched in the head. She knew what they said about her, and probably so did Professor Stokes. She began, "I'm a bit obsessed with Collins family history at the moment."

"Indeed," he replied, allowing Maggie to continue or not as she chose.

"The truth is that I've had a series of dreams about someone I believe was a member of the Collins family. I want to learn his name and his history, and I think I may find them here in old issues of the _Star_." She paused and smiled at him, "And now you probably believe I'm as crazy as my reputation."

"Not at all. Indeed, I find myself intrigued. Tell me more, please."

Though they were alone in the small reading room, she told him in a library-whisper about her dreams, and how the trance led her to the west wing of the Great House. He listened, nodding his head thoughtfully. When she was done, she said, "That's why I'm here, I thought that if the histories were incomplete, there might be a clue in the _Star_ as to who he might be. After all, the Collins family is big news in this town—always has been. It stands to reason that I might come across a story about him."

"I see," he said. "I appreciate your desire to understand this phenomenon." He let that hang in the air between them for a moment.

"But?"

"You know I think the world of Julia Hoffman," he said, not answering her question directly. "She is a most singular person—intrepid, brilliant, and she has more natural curiosity than anyone else I know. It's what makes her such an eminent psychiatrist. If I had a problem to solve or a mystery to unravel, there is no one I'd rather have by my side than Julia Hoffman."

"I agree. But?" Maggie asked during the pregnant pause that followed.

"But Julia's approach is a scientific one—a methodical one. Yes, it makes sense to conduct research, and in time you may even learn the identity of your mysterious stranger. But the occult, Miss Evans, is anything but scientific or methodical."

"So, you think I should use the occult to aid me in my search?" she asked, confused.

"On the contrary, my dear, I think you should not continue this pursuit. I think you should allow things to unfold on their own."

"I would if it were just a few strange dreams, but I was under hypnosis when I discovered the room in the west wing—and it's real, Professor Stokes. I believe I was drawn there for a reason."

"I fear I've said too much," he said.

"I fear you haven't said enough," she responded.

"Is it really so important to learn who this man was? The Collins family—Collinwood—this town—there are things best left in the past, and others are so strong that they will reach out to you no matter what actions you take. If it's the former, it's best left alone. If it's the latter, he will reveal himself and his motives to you in due course. Do you understand?" he asked.

"Not entirely, but I'll take your advice to heart just the same," she told him.

Professor Stokes lifted his large body slowly from the wooden chair, preparing to take his leave. "By the way," he paused, "I've not seen Barnabas Collins lately." He had a way of drawing out Barnabas's name that made Maggie wonder about the tenor of their relationship. "Has he left Collinwood?"

"Yes. Julia says he's temporarily relocated to Boston," she told him.

"How interesting," he said nodding. "Very interesting. Well, I'll not importune you further with my company, Miss Evans."

"Never," she said smiling. "It's always a pleasure to see you, Professor."

"And you as well, my dear. Good day to you." With that, he ambled away, leaving Maggie to contemplate his advice and his reasons for offering it. Professor Stokes was so different from Julia, yet brilliant and intrepid in his own right. That he offered her guidance, as well as a note of warning, was not lost on her.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

Quentin had stayed alone graveside until the undertakers had lowered Rachel's coffin into the ground. He would have preferred to stay until the final shovel-full of dirt was placed on the grave, but he understood that there was an obligation awaiting him at the Great House. It was only sentiment that made him want to linger, and it was not one he could entertain at the moment. Judith would expect him, and he owed her that much at least. It was a necessary but difficult ritual that would have been made easier by the passage of a day or two. But Quentin could not afford even a day or two to dull his grief.

So he turned and made his way back to the Great House. His coat was flapping open in spite of the drizzle. He didn't care. He used the span of the walk to gather himself.

Arriving at last, he found the drawing room still filled with those who attended the funeral. In deference to it still being only late morning, only coffee and tea were served—nothing stronger—along with morning cakes and sandwiches prepared by O'Neill. Quentin was immeasurably grateful when the mourners one-by-one began to disperse. Mr. Stokes offered a final word of condolence. Evan shook his hand and said, sotto voce, "Until later." Trask headed upstairs to "pray and reflect." Edward accompanied Jamison and Nora to the library. The household staff dispersed. In the end, only Quentin and Judith remained.

"I believe I will be able to sleep at last," Quentin told his sister.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said. "The days ahead will be even more difficult, I'm afraid."

"I know," he said softly and turned to leave. Turning back, he said "I haven't thanked you properly, not only for making the arrangements, but how you treated Rachel when she was alive. Thank you, Judith." Fueled by some unspoken sentiment, he went to her and kissed her cheek. Then he headed upstairs.

Quentin's first stop was Rachel's room. He stood outside for a moment and steeled himself. He knew that later that day or the next one, Judith and Mrs. Dunn would pack Rachel's few belongings. There were two items amongst her possessions that he needed to secure.

The first was hanging from the mirror of her vanity. He removed it—her broach was still pinned to a length of blue ribbon, as it was the last time she'd worn it. He tucked the distinctive gold pin, ribbon and all, into his pocket. Later, after the full moon, he would ask Judith for a length of thin ribbon, affix the broach, and wear it inside his shirt. But for now, there was a more pressing matter to attend to.

He turned his attention to searching her room. There were few places she could have hidden it. He checked the shelf in her wardrobe. Then he checked her valise. Perhaps, she intended to take it with her the night that Trask first arrived—it seemed so long ago. It wasn't there. Nor was it in the drawer of the small table in her room. He looked around the room. It had to be there. He went to her bed and lifted one corner of the mattress near the foot of the bed. Nothing. Then he went to the head of the bed and lifted the corner of the mattress. He could see the edge of the butt, nearly in the center of the bed. He wondered how she managed to lift the heavy mattress and hide the pistol nearly in the center of her bed. He lifted it now, and removed the gun. Had she forgotten it there? Perhaps she intended to remove it before spring-cleaning when the mattresses were turned. Or perhaps she meant to return it to him when she moved into the west wing with him. He would never know; he would never be able to ask her. He put it in the pocket of his jacket, took a last look at her room, and left, closing the door for the final time.

* * *

When he returned to his rooms, Quentin found that O'Neill had left him a lunch tray, but he had no interest in food. He took Rachel's broach from his pocket and set it on the mantle. Then, he packed his small grip-bag in preparation for the coming full moon. He went to the window and looked out. The morning gloom had given way to a chilly afternoon. The sun shone but its rays brought little warmth, only muted, dull light.

Already, though moonrise was still a few hours away, he felt a different kind of energy coursing through him. He flexed his hand. He felt strong, powerful, and focused, in a way he'd never felt before. Was it the coming ascendance of the animal within? Was it possible that his fear of the transformation had previously blinded him to its possibilities?

He put the grip bag on the table, locked the door to his inner room, and put the key on the table beside the bag. Closing the door behind him, he left the west wing.

The Great House was preternaturally quiet that afternoon, as Quentin made his way to the guest rooms. He knocked. A moment later the door opened to reveal a haggard-looking Gregory Trask. To Quentin's eyes, he seemed to have aged even since the morning. His dark eyes seemed sunken and recessed; the gray streaks of his hair suddenly came to the fore. "We need to speak. May I come in?" he asked.

Though he looked like he longed to say no, Trask said, "You find me in quiet reflection, so I hope this will not take long."

Quentin stepped into the room, and closed the door behind him. "I'm afraid Reverend Trask, that what I have to say will interfere with your _quiet reflection_ ," he said, his voice dripping with contempt.

"And what is that Mr. Collins?" Trask asked matching the younger man's tone.

"Simply this, you are leaving Collinwood today— _now_."

"Mr. Collins, I'm scheduled to leave tomorrow. Surely, you can tolerate my presence for one more day." Before Quentin could speak, he continued, "I understand that you're grieving, but Rachel …"

Quentin sharply cut him off. "Do not speak her name! Pack your bag. You're leaving this afternoon—now—with me."

An arrogant expression crossed Trask's face. He turned away from Quentin, and said, "I am Edward's guest, and I'll leave as scheduled unless my host asks me to leave." He turned back to face Quentin, and found a pistol pointed at him.

"Pack your bag, Trask."

The color drained from Trask's face and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. "Mr. Collins— _Quentin_ …"

"Just do as I ask," Quentin said definitively.

Trask went to the wardrobe and removed his travel case. Then he removed the few black suits he brought to Collinwood, hastily folded them and put them in the case—mentally noting that Minerva would be furious at his hasty packing.

"Quentin, please …"

Quentin's face was impassive, but he felt a surge of aggression that could only be attributable to the spirit of the wolf manifesting itself. "Hurry up," he barked.

"I am done," Trask responded, struggling to maintain his crumbling façade.

"Good. Now take a seat. You're going to write a note to Edward."

Trask looked panicked in earnest now. "Quentin, you did not know her as I did. What lies did she tell you about me?"

"Stop stalling, stop talking, and write!" Quentin said brandishing the pistol.

"You won't use it," Trask tried again in what he hoped would be a soothing voice.

"How little you know me. Write what I tell you to write, or I'll kill you where you sit." Quentin dictated, and Trask began to write: _Dear Edward, I am returning to Worthington Hall at once. I apologize for not having the courtesy to tell you in person, but I find myself overwhelmed with grief. Please thank your gracious sister for her hospitality. I remain, your servant, Reverend Gregory Trask_.

"What now?" Trask asked.

"Seal it. Leave it here on the desk. Get your bag. We're leaving."

"Where are you taking me?" Trask asked with a quaver in his voice.

"To a place that held great significance for Rachel."

As they exited the room, Trask turned toward the main corridor. "This way," Quentin said giving Trask a none-too-gentle shove toward the back staircase.

"Where are you taking me?" Trask asked again.

At the end of the corridor, Quentin pressed on a corner panel and narrow door opened before them. "Through here," he ordered Trask. Quentin pushed the false panel shut behind them. Trask went first feeling his way in the semi-darkness—one hand on the wall, his traveling case in the other. At the end of corridor, Quentin grabbed Trask's arm, "Stairs." Preventing Trask from inadvertently tumbling to the bottom.

"Quentin, please," Trask pleaded as he made his way down the narrow staircase.

"Quiet, Trask!"

"And if I'm not? Someone will come. Someone will help me!" Trask's voice broke high and panicky.

Quentin chuckled softly. He stayed Trask's descent down the steps with a hand on his arm. Turning the Reverend back to face him, he said, "How little you know about the Collins family, Trask. I could kill you where you stand, and Judith and Edward would help me bury you in the woods rather than risk our family name. No one will help you. Trust me. Now shut your mouth, and get down these stairs."

The stairs led to a small landing, and then to another flight of stairs. At the first landing was another hidden panel that led to the servants' quarters. Bypassing this, Quentin pushed Trask on toward the second flight of stairs. At the bottom of these was a door that led to a passage through the basement level of the Great House, and ultimately to the woods behind the house. From there, Quentin could force Trask out into the woods, away from the house without being seen by anyone.

* * *

Once out in the woods, Trask began again. "Where are you taking me?"

"I told you—to place of special significance to Rachel. I think you should see it before you depart."

Trask tried a different tack, "Fine. Put away the gun. You don't need it. I'll go willingly with you."

"Just keep moving. We're nearly there," Quentin told him. A clearing opened in the woods just ahead of them. "Go toward the clearing."

"I need to rest," Trask whined, as he stopped and drew a heavy breath. "My case grows heavy."

Quentin felt tempted to end it then and there, if only to silence Trask's incessant whining. "You'll have plenty of time to rest shortly. Now move." Quentin emphasized his point by using the barrel of the pistol to prod Trask along.

When they cleared the woods, the creaky gate lay ahead of them. "Open it," Quentin ordered. Dropping the burdensome case to the ground, Trask pushed open the old gate then retrieved his bag. "Go to the right." The root cellar was not far ahead of them now.

When they arrived at the doors of the cellar, Trask turned to Quentin with a questioning look. "This is the place of special significance to Rachel?" he asked.

"Open the doors, Trask," was Quentin's only reply.

Trask began, "Quentin, please, listen to me."

"Do it! Now!" Trask set the travel case aside, and bent to unbolt the doors; he opened one then the other. "Undo that hook, and lower the ladder." Trask looked at Quentin but his face spoke of his resignation. He meekly complied. "Go on," Quentin brandished the pistol. Trask turned and climbed down the ladder. Quentin tossed the travel case down behind him, nearly knocking Trask off of the ladder about halfway down. Then Quentin quickly followed him down, stopping only to close the doors, though the ladder remained lowered.

In the dim light, Trask looked around. Evidence of the wolf's impotent rage was still strewn around the cellar. "What is this place?" he asked.

* * *

Evan Handley was both an educated man and a cultured one. He'd been raised in Boston, educated there throughout his youth, and earned a law degree there. He was a junior attorney in his father's firm when by chance his interest in the occult was born. He had traveled little in his youth—only the occasional visit to New York and Philadelphia. So when his father sent him to New Orleans on a matter for the firm, he went with both excitement and trepidation.

Evan found the city unlike anything he'd experienced before. After his work was done each day, he sought out its more unusual pursuits and pleasures. It was there that he met and fell in love with a young woman of Creole descent, who openly claimed to practice voodoo, and who earned a healthy living plying her trade as a fortune-teller, conjurer of spirits, and voodoo priestess. It was hardly her knowledge and practice of the dark arts that brought him back night after night to her alleyway storefront establishment. It was her green eyes, and thick black hair, and the smiles she bestowed on him each time he appeared in her doorway that brought him back again and again. And it soon became clear, that she was more than a storefront huckster. As he watched each night, he learned that her ability to conjure was genuine, and that the dark magic known as voodoo was real. Later, he would learn that her abilities were crude and unformed by comparison to others. But in that moment, what mattered most was his attraction to this girl.

In the end, it was she who grew tired of him. She knew that no matter his declarations of love for her, he was the son of a prominent Boston attorney, who must eventually return to that life. And when he did, it would never be with her on his arm. So she spurned him, broke his heart, and set his feet on the path to being a devotee of the dark arts.

In the haze of heartbreak and alcohol, he had written to his father to say that he would not return. He sailed from New Orleans to various ports of call in the Caribbean. From there he traveled to Europe, and finally to the Orient. At each stop in his journey, he sought out local practitioners of the dark arts. He learned about the use of herbs and plants; about casting of spells based on the elements; and about divination techniques from across the world. At each stop, he acquired what written materials there were, but more importantly samples of plants and herbs, and an array of tools, devices, and artifacts used for the practices he witnessed and learned.

When at last he grew weary of living hand-to-mouth, of taking each day as it came, he returned to London, and from there bought passage to return to Boston. By then, his father showed signs of age and infirmity. Still, he was unwilling to simply give his thriving law practice to his wastrel, wayward son. Instead, he sent his son to Collinsport to secure the Collins family and its considerable assets as clients of the firm. If he was successful in doing so, his father might take pity on him and leave him the firm in his will.

In Edith Collins, Evan found a kindred spirit. The matriarch of the family was drawn to the dark arts herself—not as a practitioner, or perhaps not even as a true believer, but she was the one who first broached the subject to him, and found ceaseless entertainment in his tales from abroad. Of course, he secured the family as a client, and set about devoting much of his time and attention to their needs. So much so, that when his father died a short time later, making good on his promise and leaving Evan his practice, he shuttered the firm, sold most of father's clients to other firms, and relocated to Collinsport, where he could live quite well on the proceeds of his father's business and his earnings from the Collins family.

He felt that he missed the window for marriage. The time that he spent in New Orleans, and then traveling the world, was the time of life when a man should think of marriage. By the time he returned, he was considered an established bachelor, and his ways and interests were too odd to interest most women. Which is not to say that he did not enjoy the pleasures of women. Indeed, he had had a quite satisfying dalliance with Edward's wife Laura, before she seduced and ran off with his friend Quentin.

Now, as he was admitted into the Great House, it was Judith Collins of which he was thinking. Though he had always pictured someone younger on his arm, recent events made him think of the value of steady companionship. In Judith he did not see a love-match, but rather someone to confide in, spend time with, and share his lonely evenings.

The maid announced him to Judith. He found her sitting beside the fire. Her needlework was on her lap, but her hands did not move and she stared off into the flames. Her face was impassive, but her eyes showed telltale signs of grief.

He took a seat beside her on the davenport, and laid his hand on top of hers. They sat in silence for a moment before Judith began, "Until recently, I did not believe in the notion of curses. I believed that good things sometimes happen, and bad things sometimes happen. But now … now, I truly believe Collinwood is cursed."

Evan wrapped his fingers around her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Judith looked at him as though registering his presence for the first time. "I'm sorry, Judith." He raised her hand to his lips before returning it to her lap. "I know your grief is still raw, but in time things will return to normal," he said disingenuously, knowing that the curse placed on Quentin made that impossible.

"You've been a good friend, Evan," she said, sounding more like her usual self.

He seized the opening, "I'd like to be more." He continued quickly lest she get the wrong impression, "I'm not asking for or offering marriage, just companionship—evenings by the fire, dinner at the Inn from time to time."

She smiled, "We'll set tongues to wagging!"

"Perhaps, but we've both been alone too long, Judith. I know that now is not the right time. When your grief subsides, we'll speak again. Until then, I must go to see Quentin," he said. He kissed her hand again, bowed deeply and headed upstairs to the west wing.

Once there, Evan went to Quentin's apartment, retrieved the grip-bag, and locked the door taking the key with him as he'd promised. Then he left the Great House through the front door, as casually as he'd come. A few steps down the drive, he left the path and headed into the woods. Quentin was counting on him, and despite his reputation for self-interest, he still tried to be a loyal friend.

* * *

Dirk had managed to gather enough men from Collinsport and the estate to send four hunting parties into the woods that night. It had taken some time and argumentation to convince Edward Collins not to join them. In the end, Dirk reminded the elder Collins brother that his children would be devastated were anything to happen to him. Even then, Edward had stubbornly held onto the notion that his presence demonstrated the commitment of his family.

Dirk had removed his cap and assumed a subservient posture that did not come naturally to him. "Yes sir," he said. "I was just thinking of young Nora's face at Miss Drummond's funeral. I've never seen its like, and hope never to again."

"Very well," Edward relented. "But if you catch anything, send for me at once."

"Of course, Mr. Collins," Dirk replied in a feigned meek manner. He replaced his cap, and turned his attention to dividing the men into small groups and arming them with old hunting rifles from the stables. While he felt sorry for Nora Collins, and his sentiments in that regard were genuine, his real reason for not wanting Edward along was simple—the man needed to be in charge of everything, even when he had little understanding, knowledge, or experience to guide him. Dirk had no desire to put his safety at risk to satisfy Edward Collins' outsized opinion of himself.

So Dirk accompanied a young man from town, and he sent each of the groups in a different direction to patrol the woods from the Old House to the Collinsport road, out past the cemetery and up to the bluffs. He vowed to Judith that he would keep it up as long as the men were willing, or until they caught and killed the animal or animals hunting in their woods.

* * *

"What is this place? Trask repeated. "What has it to do with Rachel?"

Quentin smiled bitterly, "It was her _home_." Trask was clearly confused. Quentin continued, "It was her home after she left Worthington Hall. Can you imagine a woman of Rachel's sensibilities living here? So before you tell me again that I did not know her as you do, or that she was some wanton temptress who used her wiles to extort money from you, consider this— _this_ is where she hid—in a dark, dank cellar. She hid here for days—alone, afraid, and desperate. She was terrified of discovery—terrified of _you_."

"I _loved_ her," Trask began. "And she used it against me. She should have been mine. She should have loved me as I loved her," came Trask's barrage of words.

"You've said everything except what I need to hear," Quentin told him.

"She _betrayed_ me!" Trask raged. Then in a mercurial shift, he broke down, "She should have been mine. I couldn't bear the thought of her with you. I couldn't bear the thought that she would marry _you_ —give herself to _you_."

"And you killed her for it," Quentin said.

Just then they heard the cellar doors open. Seeing his chance to escape Trask rushed toward the ladder. "Help," he began, but before the word had fully left his lips, Quentin brought the butt of the pistol to the side of his head, stunning him and sending him to the floor.

From above, Evan asked, "Quentin, are you alright?"

"Yes. Is everything going according to plan?" Quentin asked as he tucked the pistol into the pocket of his jacket.

"Yes. Your bag is hidden where we discussed. I'll be back after sunrise to unbolt the doors. Good luck." As Evan responded, Quentin removed his jacket and draped it over a low rung on the ladder.

"Thank you, Evan. Go ahead and raise the ladder."

Evan pulled the ladder up and secured it, Quentin's jacket, pistol and all, still hanging on one of its rungs. Then he slid the bolt home, locking the cellar until morning and sealing Trask's fate.

* * *

Trask's hand went to his head. There was no blood, but a knot was already forming. With the younger man towering over him, Trask struggled to get to feet. He felt unsteady and uncertain. He looked frantically around the room for a way out. Bile rose to his throat. "What are you going to do to me?" he asked Quentin.

"Me? Nothing."

Now the transformation began in earnest. Quentin felt its pain take hold of his body, but it was tempered by a sense of purpose. The wolf might be nothing more than an unthinking beast, but this time its ferocity would serve Quentin's purpose. Still, at the moment of transformation, his entire body spasmed with pain. He saw Trask looking in desperation for a way out, a weapon, anything to fend off the coming unknown. Quentin relished the irony of Trask coming face-to-face with the force he had impersonated. It was Quentin's last human thought, and Trask's terrified, astonished face was the last conscious image before the wolf took possession of his body, and its fierce, predatory howl filled the subterranean chamber.


	19. Chapter 19

The Great House at Collinwood stood at the crossroads of the past and the present since its inaugural days in 1795. Like a pebble in a pond, each day brings a ripple from the past to the shores of the present. One woman in 1968 wonders whether the ripples flow back through time as well. She has pinned her hope on a desperate quest to find the origins of a tragic curse—a quest she feels certain has taken her dear friend to another time, and perhaps another place.

Dr. Julia Hoffman, MD, PhD, came to Collinwood in the guise of a historian researching local history. The ruse was intended to hide not only her real purpose for being there, but her brilliant mind and unique skills. She saw herself as part of a new breed of women doctors—smart, ambitious and unwilling to take a backseat to anyone, even their older, male colleagues. With this mentality, she had pursued her career in psychiatry, rising to head the prestigious Windcliff Sanitarium. It was one the few places with facilities that allowed her to pursue both of her passions—psychiatry and rare blood disorders. She was thriving there, earning a far-reaching reputation—that is until the day that an old friend from medical school contacted her about a troubling case, setting up a detour so great that she never returned to her previous life.

The detour had taken her to Collinwood, and before long she had become enmeshed in the lives of the Collins family and deeply embedded in their household. While she still consulted at Windcliff, being called in for its most difficult cases, she now made her home at Collinwood. When needed, she found that she could easily make the drive up the coast to the sanitarium, but most days found her dividing her time between Collinwood estate's Great House, and its Old House, home to her dear friend Barnabas Collins. Their deep and abiding friendship was forged from a tense, adversarial relationship, and evolved to one of mutual respect and interdependence.

On this day, it was her bond with Barnabas, in part, that took her to the Eagle Hill Cemetery. As to the other part, she too, like Barnabas, had grown fond of Chris Jennings, and his young sister, Amy. The young man was now trapped as a werewolf by a curse. He should have resumed his life as a man with the waning of the full moon, but it had not happened. The curse had gone awry, and he remained in his werewolf-form, locked away in a secret room in the Collins family mausoleum.

Though she was ashamed to admit it, it had taken Julia a couple of days to realize that there were ways, short of a cure, that she could help the young man. And so, in the early morning hours before the Great House began to stir, she would leave and make her way to the mausoleum to take food and water to the werewolf. The first time had been challenging. She feared that the wolf might rush at the door and escape. As a precaution, she had taken Barnabas's silver wolf's head cane with her. She had seen the effect it had on the werewolf when Barnabas brandished it. So with the cane in hand, she opened the slow moving door, and slid the readied food and water quickly into the room. The wolf snapped and snarled at her, and probably would have attacked her, were it not for the silver-handled cane. She pulled the ring that closed the door to the secret inner-sanctum of the crypt. Adrenaline surged through her body. Her hand went to her throat, and pulled her scarf tightly around her neck. It was terrifying, and no one knew how long he would stay this way. What's more, Julia wondered, how long could they keep him caged in the small windowless room? It was inhumane. She silently vowed to return as often as she could.

In subsequent visits, she noticed that the wolf had grown weaker—perhaps from lack of food, perhaps from being penned up in a small space. Either way, each time she returned, the wolf— _Chris_ —was calmer, more docile than the time before. It was as though by offering food and water, she was gradually domesticating it— _him_. She still saw Chris in the beast's eyes. Nonetheless, she always had the cane ready just in case. Emerging from the crypt, Julia lamented aloud, "Oh Barnabas, where has the I Ching taken you? When will you return?" Then silently as she made her way back to the Great House, she wondered whether there was any hope for Chris Jennings, or whether he would be forced to live out his days as a beast.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

Daybreak brought more than the dawning of a new day; it brought Quentin Collins back into his body and into being his conscious self. He knew what he had set out to do, but he had no memory of the act of accomplishing it. As he had following other transformations, he felt unsteady as he pulled himself first to his hands and knees, and then to sitting. He ran a hand through his hair. He took a few deep breaths to ready himself. Then he got to his feet to survey the werewolf's work.

It was no less than Trask deserved for what he had done to Rachel, but it was horrific nonetheless. That Gregory Trask had met a horrible death was clear. The wolf had backed him into a corner of the cellar and … it pained Quentin to look, but that he must see it was part of his own personal penance. He could not undertake such an act without acknowledging what it— _he_ —had done.

So he looked at the shredded clothing, at the bloodied hands with which Trask had tried to defend himself, and worst of all at the exposed architecture of the neck that wolf had laid bare. His stomach heaved, but only bile came up. It was dreadful—every aspect of it. Though he was sickened by the deed, he felt no guilt. Justice was done that would otherwise not have been. No one would have believed him. No one would have attributed Rachel's death to Trask. He would have gotten away with her murder, all the while blaming the beast. So Quentin could think of no more fitting an end for the Reverend Gregory Trask.

Now, he turned away. It was done. Still, there was more to accomplish, today and in the days and weeks ahead.

He knew, though he did not know how, that there would be another full moon that night. He still felt the strength, the pure animal instinct of the wolf inside. Perhaps fear and brandy had dulled his senses in his past transformations, or perhaps as time went on he was more aware of the effect the wolf had on him.

From above he heard the slide of the bolt lock. Then the cellar doors opened. "Quentin? Are you alright?" came Evan's voice through the doors.

"I'm fine," Quentin told him in a dry, raspy voice. "No need to come down—just lower the ladder and leave, like we talked about." He sounded brusque even to his own ears, so he added, "Thank you Evan—for everything."

"You know I'm always glad to help. Come and see me later when you rest and get cleaned up." Evan prepared to leave, and thought to add, "I think all of the search parties have headed home, but be careful just in case."

Quentin was now left to dispose of Trask's body. He had to find somewhere sufficiently far from Peabody's farm, to ensure that his hiding place in the root cellar would be safe for at least one more night, as well as far enough away from the area that the townsmen would have patrolled.

He surveyed the detritus of the wolf's handiwork. He gathered Trask's suits and shoved them into the badly mauled traveling case. Climbing the ladder, he left the case just outside of the cellar. Then he returned for Trask's body. He resisted the temptation to close the corpse's eyes, though he found the late reverend's permanently terrified expression disconcerting. He flung the body over his shoulder with surprisingly little effort and carried it up the ladder and out of the cellar. He stopped only long enough to close the cellar doors. Then he carried both the body and the traveling case out through the gate and back into the woods.

Using the clearing that bounded the edge of the farm as a guide, he carried the body through the woods to the far end of the farm. Then he turned and made his way deeper into the woods until he approached the road into Collinsport. Here he deposited the body and the case, taking a moment to scatter its contents, as the beast would have done. The tableau was intended, upon discovery, to give the impression that Trask was attacked in the woods on his way to the train station. As to why Trask wouldn't have asked for a carriage to take him, or stayed on the main road, Quentin believed these would be added to the estate's many mysteries. More than that, he found he didn't care what questions were raised. He had done what he set out to do—avenge Rachel's death.

Quentin made his way back through the woods to the farm. He found his grip-bag just inside the door of the dilapidated farmhouse where he'd asked Evan to leave it. Now all that remained was to change out of his bloodstained clothes into the clean ones in the grip, leave the soiled ones in the cellar, and retrieve his jacket. He would go back the way he came, using Collinwood's secret passages to return undetected to his rooms. Once there, he wanted nothing more than to wash the wolf from his body, purge the tastes from his mouth with copious amounts of brandy, and then enjoy the oblivion of sleep.

* * *

 _The beast was caged. There was no way out. It paced the length of the small space. Just as it was penned up, so was its prey. The beast watched its prey move back and forth pounding on the walls of the pen. Its desperate scent permeated the small space._

 _Then the beast approached the prey. The beast clawed at it, pushing it back up against the wall of the shared cage. At first the prey cowered, shrinking down, submitting to the will of the beast. Then the prey suddenly asserted its own will, fighting back, pushing back at the beast._

 _Now the beast rose to its full height—its fangs and claws fully manifested. It clawed at the prey demanding its renewed submission. Instead the prey flailed wildly at it, emitting strange noises interspersed with puffs of breath. The beast lunged for the prey's throat, tearing at it with its fangs and teeth. Wildly shaking the prey by its throat, the beast tossed its prey aside. It fell in a heap to the floor of the cage, and moved no more. The wolf stood over its prey, and howled its dominance into the night air._

Quentin woke much later than he'd intended. Midday had come and gone. Though the lure of oblivion was great, he could not afford to go back to sleep. The night would bring another full moon. There were arrangements to be made.

* * *

Quentin dressed and headed downstairs. He went first to ask O'Neill for some coffee, which he had in solitude in the family dining room. As he slowly drained the pot of coffee, thoughts of Rachel finally gave way to anticipation of the coming second-night full moon. He disappointed O'Neill by declining any food. The thought of recent blood and flesh in his mouth made the notion of eating impossible. What's more, he felt no need for it. His body seemed to find its own fuel.

He made his way to the foyer with the intention of visiting Evan Handley. But before he could slip out, the drawing room doors opened and Edward emerged. "I thought I heard footsteps. Here you are at last, Quentin."

"Good morn …" Quentin began before correcting himself, "Good afternoon, Edward."

"I know that you are in mourning, Quentin, but your selfishness borders on the inexcusable. Judith repeatedly knocked on your door—last evening and again this morning—without receiving the courtesy of an answer."

"I was asleep," Quentin responded with a mild affect he did not feel.

"More likely drunk again," Edward countered angrily.

"Maybe both," Quentin said flippantly.

"Judith has been worried sick about you, though for the life of me I'll never understand why she bothers," Edward fumed.

For a moment, self-pity took hold of Quentin, "Nor do I. It's more than I deserve."

As usual, Edward had to push the point, "Indeed! Perhaps if the women in this family would stop coddling you, you'd finally grow up and behave like a man."

"What's that supposed to mean, Edward?"

"Only this—you act like you're the only one to suffer loss. You'd only known the girl for a few months. Laura was my _wife_ of years, and …"

"Surely, you're not equating what happened to Rachel with Laura running off." Quentin was equal parts fury and incredulity.

"You …" Edward began, but Quentin angrily cut him off.

"Me? You'll forever blame me, but it was _she_ who seduced me."

Judith appeared in the foyer, drawn by their loud, angry voices. "That's enough—both of you. In the study," she commanded. "Now!" The two brothers sullenly followed their older sister into the study, like schoolboys awaiting punishment. Once inside, she turned to Quentin, "Shut the door." He did as he was bidden. "If you must quarrel like children at least have the good sense and good taste not to do so in earshot of the staff," she began. "To say nothing of the children!"

"I'm sorry, Judith," Quentin began sincerely. "But it seems we will never bring an end to the hard feelings over what happened with Laura."

"Not when you compare the loss of your latest romance to being cuckolded by your own brother," Edward resumed his earlier point.

"I've no doubt Laura is just fine, living somewhere in comfort at the expense of her latest victim," Quentin shot back.

"How dare you?" Edward advanced on him, hands balled into fists. It was exactly the wrong thing to do on this day that was bookended by full-mooned nights. Before Judith could intervene, Quentin backhanded Edward. Though it required little effort on Quentin's part, it sent Edward reeling.

Edward's face reddened, both from being struck and with shame. He remembered the times when Quentin was a mere boy and he was much older—he would hold his younger brother down until he begged for mercy—imposing his will, meting out punishment as he saw fit. Now, his face stung, and his hand went to soothe it.

"Quentin!" Judith's voice rang out.

The sound of her voice brought Quentin back to himself. "I'm sorry, Judith." And then to Edward, "I'm sorry, Edward, I don't know what came over me. I should have kept to my rooms today," he said and rushed from the study. He left the Great House at once and headed to see Evan Handley.

* * *

Judith and Edward stood in silence for several long moments. Judith broke the silence by saying, "You shouldn't push him like that."

" _Me_?" was Edward's incredulous response. " _Me_?" he repeated. "I hardly know you anymore, Judith. What's come over you to make you constantly take his part over mine?"

"He's grieving, Edward. And the loss of Rachel is the deepest, but it's one of many recent losses he's suffered."

"Yes—all of his _women_ seem to keep dying," Edward spat out bitterly.

"I hardly know _you_ anymore, Edward," Judith parroted his words. "What's made you so insensitive? And don't tell me this is still about Laura. Laura left of her own volition—and she took Quentin with her. You and your children are well rid of any woman—any mother—who would do such a thing. It's time you forgave Quentin for his part in it."

"Clearly, you have," Edward responded.

"Yes. I have, because we are family, Edward. You would do well to remember that."

Just then there was a light knock on the study door. Judith had come to recognize it as Elsie's sheepish knock. The girl lacked confidence in all things, and it was reflected in her inability to command attention even in the simplest ways. "Come in,"

Judith said.

"Sheriff's here to see you, Miss Collins," Elsie said.

"Show him in, please."

A moment later, the sheriff stepped into the study, turning his hat in his hands. He said, "I'm glad I've found you both together. I have news." He paused to gather himself.

In the brief interlude, Edward impatiently asked, "Well?"

"We've discovered another body in the woods. A man—we believe he was a guest here at Collinwood—Mr. Trask."

"How? Where?" Edward was clearly shocked.

Answering his questions in reverse order, the sheriff began, "In the woods just off of the Collinsport Road. A passing carriage driver noticed something amiss in the woods. It was another animal attack," the sheriff concluded.

"That's impossible!" Edward declared. "We had men out patrolling the woods last night. Surely, they would have heard or seen something."

"It's a wily one, for sure," the sheriff said. "What was the reverend doing in the woods?" the sheriff asked.

"Going to the train station, I suppose," Edward answered. Then he elaborated, "He'd left me a note saying he intended to return home earlier than originally planned. He didn't ask for a carriage, so I assume he decided to walk to the station."

"It's a long walk," the sheriff observed.

"Yes, but perhaps he intended it to be a constitutional for his soul. You see, he was quite close to Miss Drummond, and was taking her death very hard. I believe he decided to leave on impulse, acting without regard to the consequences."

"Yes, I see," the sheriff said, nodding to underscore his understanding of the situation. Then, he added, "The reverend was your friend and a guest in your home—my condolences for your loss, Mr. Collins."

"Good of you to say so," Edward said stiffly, still reeling from the shock.

The sheriff continued sheepishly, "I'm assuming you will be responsible for claiming the body and making the other arrangements."

Edward made small, irritated noise, as though such practical matters were beneath him, but Judith stepped in and said, "Of course we will. Edward will join you in town later this afternoon to make the necessary arrangements."

The sheriff showed himself out. Once he was gone, reality sank in. "I can't believe it," Edward said. "I just don't understand why so soon after what happened to Rachel, he would go into the woods alone. Why didn't he ask for a carriage to take him to the train station? It doesn't make sense."

Judith's face was impassive, calm even. "Well, I suppose we'll never know. I expect he took the answers with him to his grave."

"Speaking of that, I should prepare to go into town to make the arrangements," Edward said.

"Yes, of course," Judith responded placidly.

Edward said, "Look Judith, I don't know what Rachel Drummond told you about Gregory, but she clearly left you with an erroneous impression of my friend."

"Or perhaps, I knew Rachel better than you knew Gregory Trask," Judith retorted, giving her brother no quarter. "It hardly matters now that they are both dead. But if I were you, Edward, I wouldn't say such things to Quentin. He's been through enough, and it will needlessly provoke him."

"As you wish, Judith," Edward replied in a tone that belied the sentiment.

* * *

When Quentin arrived at Evan's door, the wolf's aggression was still pounding in his ears. He'd traversed the woods moving quickly. He'd hoped the walk would cure him of his desire to throttle his older brother. Instead, with each step, he recalled some slight, or hectoring, or act of bullying on Edward's part throughout their lives. He'd been ashamed to return to Collinwood after the Laura fiasco, and Edward sought to ensure that he carried that shame with him everyday, in every aspect of his life. Had Rachel lived, and they had forged a life together, he might have at last been free of the shadow of his past mistakes.

He knocked, and then impatiently knocked again in short order. A moment later, Evan appeared at the door. "Quentin, come in," he said holding the door open for his friend. "I've just returned from town. It's buzzing with news of the discovery of Trask's body. I believe the sheriff is on his way to Collinwood to break the news to Edward." Evan gestured for Quentin to follow him into his private study. Once there he offered his friend a seat, and poured two glasses of brandy without bothering to ask.

"Thank you Evan," Quentin said accepting the drink. "Another unfortunate animal attack, I suppose," he said disingenuously returning to the previous topic.

"You know it is," Evan responded.

"You, on the other hand, know nothing about it. Remember that," Quentin said. "I need your help again tonight, Evan. There's a second full moon."

Evan drained his glass, looked Quentin in the eyes, and asked, "And will another body be found in the woods tomorrow?"

"No," Quentin replied flatly. "Just lock me in again tonight."

"Won't it be terrible going back there?"

"I can bear it this one last time."

Evan leaned forward excitedly, "Has Magda returned? Do you have new hope for a cure?"

"Quite the opposite—I'm learning to embrace what I become. In fact, I plan to seek new feeding grounds next month—perhaps in the environs of Worthington Hall where Minerva Trask resides," Quentin said coolly.

"Quentin, you don't say such things—you don't mean it," Evan beseeched him. "Trask was one thing—he took Rachel's life. He deserved to die for what he'd done, but his wife …"

Quentin's aggression broke through again. He stood abruptly. His eyes flashed. "Will you help me tonight or not?"

"Of course, Quentin. Of course." Evan was clearly upset, but struggled to calm his friend. "Maybe tomorrow, we can talk about resuming our search for a cure—at least, think about it."

Now Quentin's breathing slowed to its regular pace, and he resumed something of his normal countenance. "I'm sorry, Evan. I don't know what came over me. It was the same earlier with Edward. I _struck_ him."

Evan smiled, relieved. "Indeed. I have to admit, I would have liked to have seen that."

"I suppose I owe him yet another apology," Quentin said rising and preparing to leave.

"Me? Yes. Edward, no," Evan said joining him and ushering toward the door. There they shook hands and parted company.

"Until tomorrow morning," were Quentin's parting words.

* * *

Barnabas made his way from the Old House to the Great House that evening in the light of the full moon. In his current state of existence—being a vampire again—it was impossible to explain his inexplicable behavior. How could he explain to his cousin Judith why he had missed Rachel's funeral? So he had stayed away until now, carrying a stain of shame with him as he entered the Great House, and sought an audience with Judith.

"Barnabas, I'm glad you've come at last," Judith said. There was an edge to her voice. "I was surprised and disappointed that you were unable to attend Rachel's funeral."

"I was unavoidably away," Barnabas replied, knowing how inadequate it sounded.

"It's just that I believe Rachel considered you a friend, and I know there was a time when you had desires of your own in her direction. Perhaps that's why."

"No, nothing like that," Barnabas assured her. "You're right of course. Upon my first acquaintance with her, Rachel reminded me very much of someone I once knew. But it did not take long for me to realize how different they were, and how unfair I was being to Rachel in drawing the comparison. To her credit, Rachel was always honest about wanting nothing more than friendship. And it was clear, in the end, how much she cared for Quentin." He looked down, disconsolate again about the limitations his condition placed on him. "I should have been here," he said softly.

Judith took pity on him. "Well, I'm glad you're now," she said. "I suppose you heard about Reverend Trask."

" _Trask_? What about him?"

"He was found dead in the woods today—another victim of these terrible animal attacks." She briefly recounted all that she knew, concluding, "Really, you shouldn't be out alone in the woods."

"Perhaps not, but I assure you I'll be careful," he said.

"I daresay so was Trask, and yet … it's too horrible to think about meeting such an end. Dirk has organized nightly hunting parties, but it managed to kill Trask anyway."

"And how is Quentin bearing up?" Barnabas asked.

"Not well, I'm afraid, though I hardly know from first-hand experience. He keeps to his rooms, and doesn't respond when I knock. The only person he will speak to is Evan Handley."

"Handley?" Barnabas said, more thinking aloud than in anticipation of a response.

"Yes. He and Evan are fast friends and confidants. Still, Quentin and I have grown close again recently, and I hoped he would turn to me—let me help him and share the grief we both are feeling," Judith said with evident emotion.

Barnabas went to his cousin, sat beside her on the davenport, and took her hand in his. "I am sorry, Judith. But you must give him time." Then he stood, "I'm afraid I must leave you."

"Must you, Barnabas? So soon?"

"I'm afraid I have urgent business in Collinsport this evening." Then he asked, "And where is Edward?"

"He is in town this evening. He went to make arrangements for Reverend Trask's body. I expect him back in the morning."

"I see. I am sorry to leave you on your own, but I promise I'll return tomorrow. Perhaps by then, things will seem better."

"Yes—thank you Barnabas."

He bowed deeply before her, and took his leave.

* * *

Barnabas left the Great House and headed toward to the Collinsport Road. Given the hunting parties combing the woods, he preferred to keep to the main road until he reached the short drive that led to Evan Handley's house. While he had never personally visited Handley, he knew the house well. It had not existed when the Great House was completed in 1795, but by 1967 when he emerged from his coffin, the house was an established residence just outside of Collinsport.

While it was late to be paying a visit to a man who was practically a stranger to him, Barnabas noted that lights still burned within and Handley's reputation as a worldly man suggested that he was not one who retired early.

Barnabas rapped authoritatively on the door and waited. A short time later the door opened to reveal Evan Handley. A full-length dressing gown covered his shirt and pants, and he wore handsome leather slippers on his feet. To Barnabas's mind, Handley's late evening attire was the epitome of 19th century masculine life.

"Mr. Collins, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Evan asked in evident surprise at finding Barnabas at his door.

"Please forgive the intrusion at this unusual hour," Barnabas began.

"Not at all," Evan interjected. "Please come in." He led Barnabas into his study, and poured them each a snifter of brandy. "Have a seat, please." They sat. Evan repeated, "So, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Given the hour, it's clear I've come on a matter of some import—frankly, I've come about Quentin." Barnabas took a sip of brandy before continuing, "You see, I know about the curse. I know what he becomes … what he's done."

"I see," Evan said as he rose from his chair and moved to stand by the fireplace. "If you've come here to seek my help in destroying him," Evan began angrily.

"On the contrary," Barnabas interrupted him. "I've come to offer help. I've been to see my cousin Judith, and she is beside herself with worry about Quentin. Indeed, so was Rachel before her death. It was she who told me about the curse."

" _Rachel_?" Evan was clearly shocked. "Why would she do such a thing?"

"She wanted me to intervene with Magda, and ask her to lift the curse. She asked it as a wedding present of sorts." Barnabas's face betrayed his emotional state. He gathered himself. "Magda is gone, but I believe there is another way to effect a cure, but I need your help."

"My help? How?"

"I understand that you are a practitioner of the dark arts," Barnabas said.

"Go on," Evan replied without confirming or denying Barnabas's statement.

"There is a powerful sorceress who has agreed to lift the curse, if I could find the answer as to why and by whom the curse was placed. Now I have the answers, but I need your help in summoning her to this time."

"I see." Evan stood quietly contemplating for a few moments. Barnabas waited and watched Handley's face as he thought it over. In his subtle shifts of expression, Barnabas watched Handley weigh whether Barnabas was trustworthy, and if so, whether he himself was powerful enough to lead the summoning. When at last he arrived at a decision, Handley said. "When is this summoning to take place?"

"Tonight," Barnabas said. "Now."

" _Now_? So soon? I …" Evan waffled, then regrouped. "It is true that the moon is a powerful ally in the summoning ceremony … Yes," he said with renewed confidence. "I … we can attempt it now. I'll need a few minutes to prepare."

"Of course," Barnabas said. He waited as Evan left the room.

A short time later, Evan returned. "Please join me in the parlor," he said, and led Barnabas into his main sitting room.

Barnabas saw that all lights had been extinguished in the room, save for the fire burning in the fireplace and several black candles arrayed on the mantle. Handley had exchanged his dressing gown for a black hooded robe. Barnabas wondered whether, strictly speaking, these theatrics were necessary for the task, but he said nothing.

"Join me by the fire," Evan told Barnabas. "Name the spirit you wish me to call forth."

"Angelique—her name is Angelique."

Facing each other they stood beside the fireplace. Evan spread his arms; the sleeves of his black robe fanned out like wings. "Angelique, I summon you. Come to me," he began. "Angelique, I summon you. Hear me and answer my call. I summon you—come from the darkness into the light … into the light of the black candles … come forth …"

Before long, it was clear to Barnabas that Handley had entered some sort of trance. His eyes seemed unfocused and his body swayed as he chanted the words again and again. As he did so, his voice took on an otherworldly quality and Barnabas found himself spellbound listening to the cadence of Evan's chant. "Angelique, I summon you. Hear me and answer my call. I summon you—come from the darkness into the light … into the light of the black candles … come forth … I command you!" Evan's voice reached a crescendo.

The black candles flamed to life—tall licks of flames reaching high above the wicks. The fireplace sparked too, and all at once the parlor reverberated with the sound of laughter. "Aha ha ha ha," the woman laughed. It was terrible and frightening to Evan's ears, but to Barnabas it was familiar, and a sign the summoning was a success. All at once a face appeared among the flames in the fireplace. "Who dares to summon me?" the voice asked. "Who dares to _command_ me?" she asked.

"I am Evan Handley, servant of the dark, and I bid you to come forth now," Evan began. His eyes were wide as a figure emerged from the fireplace flames.

She was beautiful—sparkling blue eyes were joined by apple cheeks, and framed by blond hair. She was dressed as a contemporary woman would, in a deep purple travel dress and boots. She stepped from the flames smiling, but her eyes spoke of something else.

As she beheld Evan Handley, her smile disappeared and fury flooded her eyes. " _You_!"

"Madam," Evan began in his most gallant voice.

"You!" Angelique repeated. She extended her arm in Evan's direction. As she closed her hand into a fist, Evan dropped to his knees. His hands went to his neck as though he was choking.

"Angelique, stop! It was I who summoned you. Stop! He was only the vessel," Barnabas shouted as he stepped between Angelique and Evan. " _Please_ , Angelique."

"Barnabas?"

"Yes, it is I. I summoned you. Please release him," Barnabas asked.

"Very well, but only because you asked so nicely." She lowered her arm, and Evan choked and sputtered aloud as air rushed back into his lungs. "Why have you summoned me? And why with this … this creature of all vessels?"

Side stepping her questions, he said, "You told me that if I could find out who cast the werewolf curse and why, that you would lift the curse."

"Did I?"

"Surely you remember. I asked you to help me cure Chris Jennings of the werewolf curse. You said you would, though you've yet to name your price. Well, now I know. I know who did it and why, and I do want your help—more than ever."

Angelique sighed deeply. "Go on then, tell me."

Evan looked on in stunned, fearful silence, as Barnabas recounted the key points of Quentin's curse.

"A gypsy curse?" Angelique threw back her head and laughed. "How very parochial."

"So you can lift the curse?" Barnabas asked.

"Do you not see how much more powerful I am than the last time we met? The use of dolls and personal objects seems so crude to me now. I have learned to harness the elements themselves. I have learned to channel the power of the seasons, of day and night," she boasted. "Did you not see how easily I could bring this one to his knees?" She gestured at Evan. "Of course I can cure a simple gypsy curse, but …"

"But what?"

"But it must be on the night of the full moon," she said. "He must be in his werewolf form."

"Then it must be tonight." Evan spoke at last. Angelique fixed her eyes on him, but he turned to Barnabas, "He plans to leave Collinwood."

"What? Why?" Barnabas asked, concerned.

"He plots revenge on Minerva Trask," Evan told him.

" _Trask_?" Angelique looked to Barnabas.

"Yes, the wife of Reverend _Gregory_ Trask, the late headmaster of Worthington Hall. He took Rachel's—Quentin's fiancé's—life, and paid for it with his own." To Evan he added, "Surely you don't believe he would carry out such an act?"

"You don't know Quentin as I do. He's impulsive at the best of times, let alone when fueled by grief and rage. There's no telling what he'll do," Evan responded.

"And why do you care if Quentin takes revenge on Trask's wife?" Angelique asked Barnabas with naked distain.

"I care because Rachel was my friend and because Quentin is family. I care nothing about the Trasks, but Quentin is a different matter. He was right to avenge Rachel's death, but Trask's wife had no part in that. One day, when his grief and anger subsides, Quentin will come to realize that. If I allow him to act on his impulses, he will grow to hate himself."

"You speak from experience," Angelique stated, more than asked.

Barnabas responded, "Yes, of course. And I wish to spare Quentin the painful lessons I have learned."

"Very well, Barnabas, I will help you."

"And what do you want in exchange?" He asked.

"Nothing comes without a price. That much is certain. I will give you a full accounting of mine when the deed is done." She smiled. "Perhaps, I would like to have this one as my plaything," Angelique told him, looking at Evan, enjoying his pallid, frightened face.

"People are not playthings, Angelique."

"But he bears such a striking resemblance to one who caused me great pain, Barnabas, as you are well aware."

"Your problem, Angelique, is that you don't see where the resemblance ends and the person begins. Just as Maggie and Rachel resemble Josette, but neither of them was her."

"You dare to lecture me on that point," she said in a rough, angry voice. "Anyway, why do you care, Barnabas? You never cared one whit for Nicholas Blair."

"He is _not_ Nicholas Blair. He is Evan Handley. He is Quentin's friend, and as such, he is under my protection. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Barnabas," she sighed then added, "But I find your scruples rather tiresome."

Evan listened with rapt attention, but wisely resisted the temptation to question Barnabas about his relationship with the sorceress and the meaning of their odd discourse.

Barnabas turned to Evan. "Take us to him."

Evan said, "I'll get my coat, and I'm sure I can find a wrap for Miss …"

"Bouchard," Angelique supplied.

"Your coat?" Barnabas asked. "I thought he must be chained in your attic or basement."

"No. Rachel hid him in the root cellar on Peabody's farm. He preferred to return there, and it is more private and secure than anywhere else," Evan told him.

"Then we must hurry," Barnabas said. "Move quickly."

* * *

A short time later, the three made their way toward Peabody's farm. Given the hunting parties combing the woods of the estate, they kept to the main Collinsport road until they reached the drive that led to the Great House. There, they turned as though going to the house itself.

Halfway up the drive, Dirk Wilkins stepped out onto the drive from the adjacent woods. He carried a hunting rifle tucked under his good arm. His hand was at the ready position on the trigger. "Who's there?" he asked as he stepped in front of them. "Oh, it's you Mr. Collins, Evan." His eyes came to rest on Angelique. He smiled and removed his cap stiffly with his free hand. "And Miss …" he began in an unctuous tone.

"Bouchard," Barnabas said. For some inexplicable reason, he added, "Allow me to introduce my _fiancé_ , Angelique Bouchard." He met Angelique's eyes, and they sparkled knowingly in the moonlight. "We're on our way to the Great House," Barnabas recited the agreed upon explanation for being there.

"It's dangerous to be out here after dark," Dirk said. Looking directly at Angelique, he added, "Shall I escort you to the house?"

"That won't be necessary." Evan spoke up. "I feel certain that three people will be safe together, even without a rifle."

"Of course." Dirk bowed his head to Angelique, "Miss Bouchard."

"Mister …"

"Wilkins. Dirk Wilkins, ma'am."

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wilkins," Angelique crooned. She made a slight curtsy and added, "Until we meet again."

The three continued on the drive toward the Great House. Just as the house came into view, they moved off of the drive into the adjacent woods. They bypassed the house and moved through the woods on its far side. As they went, Evan described in a hushed voice how the cellar was situated, as well as the arrangements that he and Quentin had put in place.

The full moon lit the way through the woods. Once the clearing was in sight, Evan thought to ask, "What happens when we get there? I've seen him in his werewolf form—such ferocity, without thought, compassion, or compunction. Can you cast your spell from outside of the cellar?"

"We will use this to approach him," Barnabas said, holding up the wolf-head cane.

"A cane?" Evan was incredulous.

"Yes. The silver wolf's head will bring him to heel."

"You've never seen him like this," Evan said anxiously.

"No," Barnabas responded. "But I've used it before on a different werewolf—it had a powerful effect on it. I believe it will again."

"I hope you're right," was Evan's resigned response.

"You may wait outside the cellar," Angelique said in an imperious tone. "Indeed, if there are more men roaming the estate, you will be of more use to us as a lookout than anything else."

Though Evan disliked her tone, his hand went involuntarily to his throat, and his mind returned to the sensation of choking she so easily induced. He said nothing. He continued to lead his companions through the clearing and the gate, and finally to the door of the cellar. "This is it," he said. He crouched down and pulled open the bolt. Lifting one door then the other, he showed them the cellar below. To Barnabas, he said, "As soon as we lower the ladder, you should go first, if the cane will protect you. Otherwise, it—he—might charge up the ladder and escape."

"Very well," Barnabas said. Then added, "It's so dark. We should have thought to bring a lantern."

They heard the creature below growling. "Never mind a lantern," Angelique said impatiently. "Let's get on with it."

Evan unhooked the ladder and began lowering it slowly. Cane in hand, Barnabas stood ready to descend it as soon as it reached the bottom. Evan said, "There—go quickly."

Barnabas turned and began backing down the ladder. As Evan predicted the wolf made for the ladder too. Before Barnabas could reach the ladder's lower rungs, the wolf was already there, growling and snapping at him. Barnabas felt the sting of clawing at his ankles. Still gripping the cane in one hand, he turned awkwardly on the ladder, to descend face forward. He now came face-to-face with Quentin in his werewolf form—baring its fangs and claws, but like Chris Jennings, the soul of the man still showed in his eyes.

Barnabas brandished the cane to immediate effect. The wolf howled as if the mere proximity of the silver stung him. It leapt back off of the ladder to the floor below. Barnabas now advanced slowly down the ladder into the near darkness of the cellar. He was nearly there when his foot missed the rung, and sent him tumbling face down to the floor. The beast was on him at once—sensing its prey in front of it, the ladder was forgotten. The wolf clawed at Barnabas's back and growled. Barnabas's arm reached out in search of the cane.

Angelique heard the growling and Barnabas's frantic movements below. She took this opportunity to descend the ladder while the wolf was otherwise occupied.

Though Barnabas had seen Chris in his werewolf form, he had never experienced the wolf's full ferocity, strength, and aggression directed at him. Now, he felt the scrape of the wolf's claws, rending his coat, practically taking it off of his back. He struggled to his knees, frantically searching for the cane. At last in the semi-darkness, a glint of silver caught his eye. He crawled toward it. The wolf clawed at him, playing with its injured quarry.

Barnabas could feel the weight of the wolf on him, practically pinning him down. He could feel its hot breath coming nearer his neck. He knew that the wolf would strike—that it would tear out his throat with its fangs. With one final effort, he reached out and found the cane with his hand. With the strength he still possessed, he pushed himself to hands and knees and turned as much as he could toward the snarling beast. With a shaky hand, he raised the cane and struck the wolf with its silver head. The wolf jumped back and gave a chilling howl that sent shivers through Barnabas. It retreated back into the cellar. In the corner of his eye, Barnabas saw Angelique at the foot of the ladder. "Now, Angelique, now," he cried.

Her eyes glowed in the semi-darkness. Barnabas watched as she raised her arms and let the wrap fall to the floor.

"Light of the moon, pull of the tides, aid me in my task. Free this man from the bonds of the wolf's-bane within."

Barnabas felt as though the little moonlight that reached the cellar floor shone on Angelique alone. She seemed bathed in moonlight. It illuminated her golden hair and creamy cheeks—even her hands and fingertips glowed in the moonlight.

"Gypsy spirits relinquish your hold. Obey my commands—relinquish your hold. Power of wolf's-bane be gone—heed the power of the moon and the tides, which flow through me. I am their vessel—you must heed my commands."

It seemed to Barnabas to have no effect. For a moment, Angelique looked drained, frustrated, defeated even. Then she rallied, and began again.

"Gypsy spirits relinquish your hold. The power of the tides moves through me. Heed my command, heed the power of the moon, and the force of the tides. I am their vessel and I command you to relinquish your hold." Now with renewed concentration, she continued, "Wolf's-bane be gone. The tides themselves pull you away. The tides will wash him clean, and sweep the wolf's-bane away. I command it."

The wolf backed itself into a corner.

"I command it," Angelique's voice rang out through the cellar. "The tides work through me to free him of the wolf's-bane within."

The wolf howled and bayed—its frightful noise formed a chorus to Angelique's incantation.

"As the vessel of the moon, I command it. _I command it_."

The wolf crumpled to its knees then fell to the floor. Its howls became whimpers of pain then groans of agony.

"As the vessel of the tides, I command it. _I command it_."

To Barnabas's ears it sounded as though the tides themselves swept through the cellar. It was working.

"As the vessel of the moon and the tides, _I command it_ ," she said, lowering her arms, stumbling forward from the exertion. Barnabas sprang to his feet, reaching her just as she collapsed in his arms.

"Angelique? Are you alright?"

"Did it work?" she whispered.

Barnabas saw his cousin writhing in agony on the cellar floor—part wolf, part man. The transformation was underway. "Yes. You did it," he assured her. "He is free. He is Quentin again."


	20. Chapter 20

The Great House at Collinwood is home to many secrets—secrets from its past, long buried by the Collins family—secrets that threaten to merge past into present. Still, in spite of its dark corners and recesses, the Great House is also a home. For Maggie Evans, the family governess, it has recently become her home. On this day, which has dawned fair and sunny, she wants nothing more than to set aside the mysteries and secrets, and enjoy the day.

"A picnic lunch? Today?" Mrs. Johnson asked.

"Yes, please. It doesn't have to be elaborate," Maggie told her. "Just some sandwiches, apples, maybe cookies if you have some."

"You know I always have cookies. I'll pack some of David's favorites. I'll fill a couple of thermoses too—coffee for you, milk for the children," Mrs. Johnson said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Wish I could go on a picnic instead of polishing silver today," she groused under her breath.

Maggie ignored it and asked instead, "And where might I find a suitable blanket?"

"In the small cupboard underneath the stairs. Shall I get one for you?"

"No, thank you. I can do that." Maggie easily found the cupboard that was full of things clearly intended for outdoor activities. There were pails and spades, and folding chairs for the beach. She wondered whether anyone from Collinwood ever made their way to the beach—not just the bluffs above the craggy rocks—but the actual beach below as she and her father used to do when she was younger. While it was only a short drive away, it seemed like a world apart from the Great House. There were several blankets, and even a wicker basket that would be perfect for carrying their lunch. Maggie selected a plaid, flannel blanket, grabbed the basket, and returned to the kitchen.

"I found everything we need," Maggie announced arriving back in the kitchen to find Mrs. Johnson putting the finished touches on the sandwiches. Maggie set the basket and blanket aside and went to her. "Let me help you," she offered.

"There's no need," Mrs. Johnson began. But seeing Maggie's face she said, "Why don't you finish packing the sandwiches. I'll get the cookies and apples."

"Thanks, Mrs. Johnson. I like to help. It feels … oh, I don't know … normal, I guess." Maggie's mind drifted back. "You know, sometimes on a nice day like today, Pop would take his sketch pad, or a canvas and easel, and I'd make us a picnic lunch, and we'd drive until we found someplace picturesque. Pop would work, and I could play or read or explore."

"Sounds perfect," Mrs. Johnson interjected.

Maggie laughed, "I'm looking back through rose-colored glasses."

"You must miss him very much," the older woman said.

"Yeah, I do," Maggie said sadly. "I really do. Sometimes reality hits me, and I realize that I'm really alone and on my own."

"You have us, Maggie," Mrs. Johnson told her in a maternal tone.

"Don't get me wrong, Mrs. Johnson. I appreciate being here at Collinwood, and all of you have been so wonderful to me since I started working here, but …"

"You don't have to say it. I understand. Worthless as he is, I still have my Harry, so I think I understand what you mean."

Maggie pulled herself back from the brink of tears. "I can imagine how Amy must feel. So I hope we can create some happy memories for her," Maggie said both to fill the quiet space between them and to distract her from missing her dad.

Mrs. Johnson looked at her with new respect. "You have a good heart, Maggie Evans."

Maggie laughed, "That's very kind of you, Mrs. Johnson."

Mrs. Johnson retrieved a kitchen towel from the cupboard, and lined the basket with it. Then she put in the sandwiches, cookies, apples, and the thermoses. She lifted it and handed it to Maggie. "It's not too heavy, is it?"

"We'll be fine. David and I will take turns carrying it, and on the way back it will empty! Thanks for your help," she said and went to wrangle her charges.

* * *

David and Amy were alive with the kind of energy reserved for children who had just learned that instead of spending the day indoors studying, they were going on a picnic. They had gone upstairs to change into clothing suitable for a picnic and exploring outdoors. While Maggie awaited their return in the foyer, she contemplated which direction to take. Given the impromptu nature of their excursion, she thought actually going to the beach would take too long. Their afternoon walks frequently took them toward the Collinsport Road or through the woods that led to the Old House. So that would not be very diverting. She didn't think the bluffs above the sea would be a very good place for a picnic. She would be constantly worrying about the children getting too close to the edge—especially David.

She settled on heading through the woods that bounded the far side of the Great House and led to the Old Peabody farm. The farm had stood derelict on the edge of the Collinwood estate for as long as anyone could remember. While it was served by a small access road that turned off of the main Collinsport Road, it could be approached through the woods behind the Great House. The farm had long been a curiosity to her. Why had it been deserted for so long?

Though Maggie had initially used the children's history lessons as a pretext for researching the 19th century, she soon found herself genuinely caught up in it, and thought it would interest the children as well. So she decided a picnic near Peabody's farm, followed by a bit of exploring would satisfy their need for fun and adventure, as well as offer some educational opportunities. At least, she hoped so. She hoped it would not prove to be a bust.

So they made their way through the woods toward the farm—the children peppering Maggie with questions as they walked. She told them what she knew, but she said that if they were interested they could find out more in the Collinwood library or at the one in town.

Before long, they reached a clearing that was suitable for a picnic. A day so sunny, fair, and warm was rare at Collinwood. They enjoyed their lunch in the shade a tree just at the edge of the clearing. In the distance, they could see the farm. It was separated from the estate proper by a ramshackle fence. The adventure was so inviting that David wolfed down his lunch, and stood pacing with nervous energy waiting for Maggie and Amy to finish theirs.

"Please Maggie, can I go on ahead? I promise I'll be careful," David pleaded.

"Absolutely not," Maggie responded firmly. "And as long as you brought it up, when we get there we all stick together, understood?"

"Of course," Amy agreed.

"Sure, I guess so," David sulked.

"Listen David, the farm is old and unused. I don't know how long it's been since anyone went there. It could be dangerous," Maggie said in a stern voice.

David perked up, "Really?"

"Yes—really. And that means we need to be careful—and you need to do as I say. Understood?"

"Yes, Maggie," he sighed.

"Promise? Otherwise we'll turn back right now. I mean it."

"I promise," David told her.

"And so do I," Amy chimed in.

They put the thermoses in the basket, folded the blanket and put it in as well. Then they headed across the clearing to the farm. A creaky gate that barely clung to its hinges provided the opening onto the farm itself.

It was unremarkable in many respects—a main farmhouse and a couple of smaller connected buildings including a barn at one end, and smaller buildings at the back. The main house had the most potential, so it was there that they began.

All the windows were shuttered, and the front door was boarded up. "We could pull these boards off," David said.

"No, David," Maggie said sensibly. "Let's look around. Maybe there's another way in."

David took off sprinting around the side of the derelict house. "David!" Maggie called after him. "Be careful, _please_." Basket in one hand, Amy's hand in the other, Maggie followed him around the corner. He wasn't there. She picked up her pace. Amy had to run to keep up. They rounded the second corner leading to the rear of the house. "David! You promised to be careful!"

"I'm sorry, Maggie. But look! I think I found a way inside," David beamed.

Maggie and Amy joined him at the door to the smaller addition to the house. The door hung loosely on its hinges, and swung open with a gentle touch. "That's odd," Maggie said aloud.

"What is?" Amy asked, tightly gripping her governess's hand.

"The front door was boarded up, but this one …" She took a step inside. Now she could see that the rear entrance too had once been boarded shut, but someone had pried the boards off. They were strewn around. From the patina of dirt and cobwebs, it had been done long ago.

They stepped inside into what had once been the kitchen. Maggie looked around. Amy still held her hand tightly. "This little building was the kitchen," Maggie said. The abandoned hearth and cabinets spoke of life in another time. But the house's state of disrepair worried her. Floorboards groaned ominously underneath their feet. "Perhaps it would be better if we stay outside," she concluded to the welcome relief of Amy, and a huff of discontent from David.

"We came all this way, and now we're not even going to explore the house," David whined.

"The floorboards might give way under us, David. And those beams don't look too steady either," Maggie said, wondering if this had been a wise choice for exploration. "Anyway there's a lot we can learn from exploring the exterior and the grounds," she said as she and Amy backed carefully out the door. David followed being pointedly careless in his footing and manner. He gave Maggie a mischievous smile, but she didn't mind once they were all safely outside.

They explored the other wings of the house. They included the barn and a small, low-ceilinged building that was mostly like the privy. Maggie wondered silently again and again why the farm was abandoned, and why no one from Collinwood ever thought to reclaim it. It was odd—just another of the many oddities of life at the great estate. The Collins family had so much wealth, so much property that this old farm could go tended, while families, like Maggie and Sam, tucked in together in tiny cottages and houses in and around town.

When it was time to head back to the Great House, David ran ahead toward the fence; Maggie and Amy followed—Amy chatting amiably about how much fun it was to go exploring.

"Hey, Maggie, what's this?" they heard David call.

They followed the sound of his voice and found him standing looking down at two strong wooden doors. David knelt down and tried to slide the bolt open. It was old and rusty. Maggie said, "It's a detached cellar—some families kept supplies and provisions in them." David's hands worked at the bolt as she spoke. "Well, it doesn't seem to want to open," Maggie said. "And we should be getting back now anyway." She and Amy turned to leave. Just then, the bolt gave way and slid open. Maggie turned back as David pulled open one door then the other.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

Quentin came back into his body as he always did following the transformation—his body ached—every joint, every muscle, even his sinew ached. He was on the floor, lying on his side. "Rachel?" he whispered through parched lips. Then he remembered. She was gone. He remembered it was the second night of the full moon. He remembered asking Evan to help him. The wolf was gone. He was back.

He pushed himself to sitting, and looked around. It was still dark, and he was not alone. "Barnabas! What are you doing here?" He tried to get to his feet, but found it was too soon after the transformation for precipitous movement. As he sat, he noticed that Barnabas was not alone. He was supporting a woman, who held onto his arm. Quentin repeated, "What are you doing here?" Then added, "Who is she?"

Barnabas said, "Her name is Angelique, and I brought her here. She has certain powers—certain _gifts_. She has cured you of the curse, Quentin. You are free," Barnabas announced.

Now Quentin managed to struggle to his feet. "Free?"

"Yes. Angelique has removed the curse. You are no longer a werewolf," Barnabas told him proudly. All the while, Angelique held onto his arm trying to recover from her exertion.

Quentin pushed past them, and went to the ladder. On shaky legs, he climbed the first several rungs and looked through the cellar doors out into the night sky. It was dark out, save for the illumination of the full moon. He turned back toward them. "You removed the curse!" he cried furiously. "What gave you the right?"

"Quentin, listen to me," Barnabas pleaded. "It's what Rachel asked of me. It's what _she_ would have wanted for you."

"Perhaps when Rachel was alive, I would have wanted it too. But now, I want nothing more than to complete what I began. What gave you the right to interfere?"

"That is hardly the thank you I expected, Mr. Collins," Angelique said recovering her strength, and her voice along with it.

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint," Quentin returned sarcastically, "especially upon first acquaintance. Perhaps in the future, you'll ask the recipient first before bestowing one of your gifts." Then he scrambled the rest of the way up the ladder. There he found Evan anxiously waiting. "You, Evan? You brought them here? You brought them here to lift the curse?"

"Quentin, my dear boy …"

Quentin snapped at him, "I told you never to call me that. I am _not_ your dear boy."

Barnabas and Angelique alighted the ladder just in time to see Evan take a step back away from the furious Quentin. "I … we did what we thought was best. It was your best chance of being cured," Evan told him reasonably.

Quentin's eyes flashed. "I didn't want to be cured. I wanted to hunt down Minerva Trask. I wanted retribution for the pain she inflicted on Rachel. I wanted to see the look in her eyes knowing there was no escaping her fate. I wanted the beast to tear out her throat …" Tears began to form in his angry eyes. "I wanted to transform afterward to find her as dead as Rachel was the last time I held her." At last, he broke down and allowed his tears to wash away his impotent rage.

In the distance, a cock crowed. Dawn was approaching.

Barnabas turned to Evan, "We must leave now. Please see that he returns safely to the Great House. I've promised my cousin to visit this evening. I hope to see you then. In the meantime, we must return to the Old House."

"Mr. Handley, Mr. Collins," Angelique hissed, but offered them a courteous, albeit stiff, curtsy. Then she took Barnabas's proffered arm and together they walked off into the night.

* * *

Quentin and Evan made their way back through the woods to the Great House. Quentin was by turns silent and sullen, bitter and reproachful, and tearful. The sudden realization that he was cured of the curse, rather than bringing peace, had unleashed a fresh torrent of grief. Before, planning for his transformation, plotting how to exact revenge had kept the worst expressions of grief at bay. Now, it was hitting him with full force. He had but one thought—how to dull the pain.

He allowed Evan to accompany him through the Great House's hidden passageways back to his rooms in the west wing. Once there he went at once to his inner room to wash and change his clothes. Evan was still there looking anxious and worried, when he emerged.

Quentin went to the small cabinet and poured himself a drink. "Do you want one?" he asked Evan flatly.

"No, thanks … and don't you think it's a bit early? Why don't you try and get some rest instead?"

"Why don't you try to stop giving me advice?" He held up his glass, "This—this is rest. This is sleep." He downed the liquor in his glass and refilled it. "This is how I'll keep going, now that you and Barnabas have taken away my purpose for living."

"Revenge, Quentin? That would only get you so far. After you killed Minerva Trask, what then? Trask's daughter? The other teachers at Worthington Hall? Anyone who ever slighted Rachel? That's no way to live. You have to figure out how to begin again," his friend told him.

Quentin walked to the door and opened it, signaling it was time for Evan to leave. As Evan turned to leave, Quentin said, "Thanks for the sage advice, Evan." He pointedly drained the glass, and closed the door in his friend's face.

* * *

Evan did not even consider trying to find his way out through the secret passages. Instead, he went back through the west wing to the main staircase and through the foyer. As he reached the Great House's front door, it suddenly opened to reveal Edward Collins. An awkward moment ensued, after which Edward said, "Handley, what are you doing here so early?"

Tempting though it was to tell the pompous Collins brother that he'd been visiting Judith, he had no desire to besmirch her in such a way. So, he cleaved closer to the truth, "I was making sure that Quentin is alright."

"At this hour, the sun is barely up."

"Yes, I brought him home quite late last night, and stayed in his sitting room," Evan told him.

"Humph," Edward snorted. "Still drowning his sorrow," he added contemptuously.

Evan turned the conversation, "And you Edward, out for an early morning constitutional?"

"Just returning from town, if you must know," was Edward's high-handed response. "I've been seeing to the arrangements for my friend, the Reverend Trask."

Evan smiled inwardly, but said, "Yes, a bad business."

"Indeed," Edward nodded as if to confirm this assessment.

"Well, I'll not waylay you any longer, Edward. Please give Judith my regards, though I intend to return this evening."

"Very well, Handley," Edward said in his usually stiff way.

* * *

A short time later, having washed and changed into fresh travel clothes, Edward met Judith in the family dining room. Today, she marked Rachel's death with a black armband, set against her midnight blue day-dress. She was seated at the dining table, her half-eaten morning meal in front of her.

Edward went to the sideboard and prepared a breakfast plate for himself. Then he joined Judith at the table and announced, "The arrangements are complete. I'll escort Gregory's body back to Worthington Hall and stay for the burial."

"Must you, Edward? When do you leave? How long will you be away?" was Judith's response.

"Of course, I must. I leave at once, and expect to be away no more than a week. I can't very well send his body home unescorted," Edward huffed angrily at his sister. "He was a guest in our home, and he was brutally killed on the grounds of our estate. Whatever you think of the man, common decency dictates that I do this."

"I agree," Judith conceded. "I know it's wrong to think of myself and yet, it's such a difficult time, I would find having you here reassuring."

Edward looked at his sister, and softened. "I am sorry to leave you at this difficult time, Judith, but I've no doubt that you'll bear up as you always do," he said.

They sat in silence for some time as Edward ate his breakfast.

In the wake of Rachel's death, and Quentin's downward spiral, Judith was rethinking a decision that she, her grandmother, and her brother made following Quentin's infamous departure with Laura Collins. It was a decision the three of them had made together, and now it seemed right to consult Edward before undoing it.

Following her own train of thought, she began without introduction, "I believe it's time to tell him, Edward. He needs something … something to hold on to, something to give him hope. Look at him …"

Edward grasped at once to what his sister referred. "Yes, look at him, Judith—drowning his sorrow, seeking solace at the bottom of a glass. He's a feckless mess. I know you two have grown close since I've been away, and that your mutual affection for the governess has brought you together, but think! Think about the child. Do you think it is fair to remove a child from a home where it's being loved and cared for? And for what? To return it to a life of uncertainty with a drunkard father, and no mother."

" _He_. The child is a boy. He's Quentin's son, and he could grow up here just as well as with the Jennings."

"Well, _he_ is not Quentin's child with Rachel. _That_ might give him hope, and a reason to live. But I know from experience what he will see every time he looks at his son—disappointment, his own failings, and in Quentin's case—his madwoman of a wife. No, Judith. We made the decision we did for sound reasons. What's more, he'll not thank us for our duplicity. In his current state of mind, he could take the child and run, with no plan in mind. Think about it, Judith. Think long and hard. It is a life-changing decision to be sure—and not just for Quentin, for his son as well. The child is happy with the Jennings, is he not?"

"Yes," Judith conceded, "He is."

"And you provide for his needs, don't you? He never has to want for anything."

"Of course," she returned in a small voice.

"And what of the Jennings? They've taken the boy into their home. They have no other children, and they've raised him as their own."

Now Judith doubted herself. "Oh, Edward, I don't know what's right and what's wrong. I just can't bear to see Quentin like this. He keeps to his rooms. And you're right, I'm sure he is drowning his sorrow, but how long can he go on like this? I must find a way to help him."

"Well, at least wait until I return. We can decide then. That way, if we decide to bring the child to Collinwood, I'll be here to help you. I'll be here when you tell him, and to help you weather Quentin's response. Promise me that you'll wait."

She sighed deeply. "Yes, I promise I'll wait."

* * *

Quentin emerged from his rooms in the afternoon, and reluctantly made his way downstairs to the drawing room. He sought another bottle of brandy from the liquor cabinet. Failing that, he would go to the basement in search of one.

Entering the drawing room, he found Jamison and Nora sprawled on the rug in front of the fireplace playing a card game. As soon as he saw his uncle, Jamison abandoned his cards in a heap on the floor, and ran to Quentin. "Uncle Quentin," he said embracing his uncle around the waist, and burying his face in his uncle's shirt. "Where have you been? We haven't seen you since …" the boy's voice trailed off.

"Since Rachel's funeral," his sister Nora supplied, joining them, though without the demonstrative display of affection.

"Yes," Quentin said, "I'm finding her absence—her death—hard to bear."

"Father says you need to try harder," Nora said in a smug voice.

"And what's does your father know about my feelings, Nora?" Quentin snapped at the startled child.

"Quentin!" Judith stood in the doorway—hands on her hips, disapproval on her face. To Nora and Jamison she said, "O'Neill is baking this afternoon. Why don't you run along to the kitchen and see what she has to sample?"

Nora followed Jamison out of the drawing room, pausing only long enough to shoot a squinty, parting glance at her uncle. Judith immediately admonished her brother. "You shouldn't speak to her like that, Quentin. She's only a child."

"Have you ever noticed how like her mother she is? It's her turn of phrase, her tone of voice that recalls her mother to mind," Quentin said.

To his surprise, Judith said, "Yes, I have. It's quite uncanny given how little time she's spent with mother." Then she went on, "But the fact remains that she is only a child—and she is simply repeating what she's heard from Edward."

"Edward," Quentin said with something akin to distain. "I wish to hell that he'd never brought Trask to this house!"

" _Trask_? What has he to do with what happened to Rachel?" Judith asked.

Quentin stalked to the liquor cabinet and removed a bottle of brandy. What could he say? That Trask had brutally ended Rachel's life? No, it would never do—it would only lead to more questions for which there were no answers. "Everything began to unravel the night he arrived," Quentin said.

"On the contrary, I would have thought that his arrival precipitated something good in your life," Judith countered. She looked disapprovingly at the bottle in his hand. "Rachel would not have wanted this for you," she said indicating the bottle. "You can't go on like this, Quentin.

"I know that, Judith. What I don't know is what comes next, and how I get from here to there." With that, bottle in hand, he left the drawing room and returned to his west wing apartment."

* * *

That evening brought a trio of visitors to the Great House. Evan Handley arrived first. He had timed his visit in hope of an invitation to stay to dinner. He went first to check on his friend. He knocked on the door to Quentin's sitting room. Receiving no answer, he turned the doorknob and found the room was unlocked. Opening it, he peeked in and called, "Quentin, are you here?" No answer. He stepped into the sitting room. There was no sign of Quentin, but the door to his inner room was open a crack. He approached, looked in, and found Quentin sprawled face down on his bed, fully dressed. A half-empty bottle of brandy stood sentry on his night-table. Evan sighed and withdrew.

He returned downstairs and found Judith in the drawing room. She welcomed him effusively—clearly made happy by his presence—or at least by the prospect of not spending the evening alone. She had happily extended the invitation Evan had hoped for, to join her for dinner. They had taken the evening meal together in the family dining room—sitting companionably side-by-side at one end of the table.

Evan took it upon himself to try to lift Judith's spirits by regaling her with tales of his travels. For her part, she remembered some of his tales from overhearing him tell her grandmother the very same stories. She would never tell him so. Instead she appreciated the distraction. If she allowed herself, she knew her mind would drift to worrying about Quentin, or thinking that she would soon need to hire a new governess, or wondering why the search for the creature or creatures hunting in their woods had yielded nothing. So when her mind would drift down one of these lanes, she would recall herself to Evan's words. Evan, it seemed to her, was one of those people who enjoyed talking and storytelling a great deal, without giving the impression of liking the sound of his own voice.

At then end of their meal—of which neither had eaten much—she for lack of appetite, and he for lack of time given his loquaciousness—she invited him to join her in the drawing room for a brandy. Evan offered to pour while Judith settled herself in her usual place on the davenport.

As they sat companionably by the fire, there was a knock at the door. A moment later, Barnabas was admitted to the drawing room, accompanied by Angelique. "Cousin Barnabas, please come in. Join us," Judith said with a raised eyebrow.

"Allow me to introduce my fiancé, Angelique Bouchard. Angelique, my cousin, Judith Collins," Barnabas introduced the two women.

Judith rose and took Angelique's hand. She turned to her cousin, "Barnabas, you are a sly one. You never said a word, but I daresay it explains your absences."

"May I offer you a brandy?" Evan asked them, assuming the role of host along side Judith.

"Yes, please," Angelique said as she went to join Judith on the davenport.

"So, how long have you been at Collinwood?" Judith asked.

"Only since yesterday evening," Angelique answered with a broad smile, clearly enjoying Barnabas's discomfort with his cousin's interrogation.

To Barnabas, Judith said, "You should have told me of her arrival, Barnabas. Miss Bouchard is certainly welcome to stay here at the Great House. We've plenty of room."

"Please call me Angelique," the sorceress offered.

"And you must call me Judith," the lady of the house responded.

"Thank you, Judith. I understand that your brother lost his fiancé recently. Under the circumstances, I think it would be best if I stay in town at the Inn."

"Of course. If you change your mind …" Judith began.

Lest Angelique do exactly that, Barnabas intervened, "And how is Quentin today? I should like to pay my respects."

"He keeps to his rooms, I'm afraid," Judith responded diplomatically.

"I see," Barnabas said thoughtfully then added, "I'm sorry to hear it."

Then Judith's interrogation regarding Barnabas's mysterious engagement resumed. Where was Angelique from? Where was her family now? How had she and Barnabas met? When were they to be married?

With a smile fixed on her face, Angelique had patiently explained that she was originally from Martinique. She was now an orphan, and alone in the world, except for an aged grandaunt, too old and infirm to travel to their wedding, Angelique embellished. Angelique told Judith how the English branch of the Collins family and the Bouchard family were long-acquainted through business, and that was how she and Barnabas knew one another. As to when they were to be married, Angelique said, "Well, I hardly know. It's all so new." Then she turned to Barnabas with a deeply dimpled smile, batted her eyelashes at him and said, "Isn't it, darling?" Her hand went to her mouth in faux embarrassment. She said to Judith, "You must forgive me. My French heritage is coming through."

Barnabas watched her performance, and felt reassured that he could trust her to be alone with Judith for a short time. He turned to Evan Handley, "Mr. Handley, I wonder if I may have a word with you on a business matter." He added, "It is somewhat urgent."

Judith said, "Evan, why don't you and Barnabas speak in the study?"

Once the two men were alone in the study, Barnabas began, "I wanted to thank you for your help in summoning Angelique. I know she can be …" He searched for a euphemism. "… Challenging, but as you can see she possesses many talents."

"Indeed," Evan responded touching his throat. "I have a great many questions about her _talents_ , Mr. Collins, but you said you had an urgent matter to discuss. My questions will wait for another time."

"Yes. I understand that you are a collector of objects of the occult."

"I am," Evan said. "I traveled the world and acquired many interesting artifacts, herbs, plants used in occult rituals… well, you name it."

"I am hoping to acquire a particular artifact, Mr. Handley. Have you ever heard of the I Ching?" Barnabas asked.

"Of course," Evan responded as though insulted by the suggestion that he would be unaware of something so fundamental. "The ancient practice of divination utilizing wands to call forth hexagrams of discovery."

"Precisely. I would like to obtain a set of I Ching wands. Do you have one?"

Evan stroked his goatee. "I'm afraid not, but I know where you can acquire them."

"I hope it doesn't entail a trip to the Orient," Barnabas said smiling.

"Only to Collinsport," Evan told him.

" _Collinsport_?" Barnabas was incredulous. "There is another collector of such items?"

"Yes. I did have a set of the wands that I brought back from China, but I traded them for an amulet of rare and interesting properties."

"Traded them to?"

"Timothy Stokes, the librarian—he has an interest in the occult that nearly rivals my own. I feel certain he still has them. Perhaps we can visit him tomorrow," Evan offered.

Barnabas appeared to consider. "Timothy Stokes," he repeated. "I will go see him at once," Barnabas said resolutely.

"It's rather late, don't you think? The library has long since closed, but he'll reopen in the morning, and I'd be glad to accompany you then," Evan offered again.

"I'm afraid it must be tonight. Angelique will accompany me. Between us, I'm sure we can persuade Stokes to entrust the wands to us."

Worry suffused Evan's face. Though they were not friends per se, he respected Stokes and their mutual interest in the occult cemented them as allies in the small, parochial town. "I wouldn't want any harm to come to him," Evan began.

"Nor do I," Barnabas assured him. "I only want the wands."

"May I ask why you want them?" Evan asked.

"You may, but I may choose not to tell you. Suffice it to say that I will use them for good. Now, please tell me where I may find him."

Evan hesitated then said, "He lives above the library on the main street in town. I expect you'll find him there."

* * *

A short time later, Barnabas and Angelique took their leave. Barnabas assured his cousin that they would be safe as they made their way into town. He declined the use of the carriage, opting instead to walk with the promise of staying on the main road. With that, they left Judith and Evan sitting companionably by the fire in the drawing room.

On the way into Collinsport, Angelique chided Barnabas for turning down the use of the carriage. "Just because you enjoy walking through the woods at night doesn't mean that I want to do so," she said. "You might have at least asked my preference first."

Barnabas sighed, "Angelique, we are not walking through the woods. We are taking the main road, and …"

"All the more reason we should have accepted the use of a carriage. Although I will admit that there is something romantic about walking arm-in-arm under the waning moon," she teased.

Barnabas offered no response. He was happy in the knowledge that the town was not far off. After a time, Barnabas began to reconsider his intension of having Angelique accompany him to the library. He said, "I'll take you to the Inn and then continue on to find Stokes."

"No, Barnabas. I should like to attend your meeting with Mr. Stokes."

"Angelique," he began, "This isn't a lark. I summoned you to help me end the curse. And now that that is done …"

"You wish to go on in your own way, leaving me to do what? No, Barnabas. You summoned me to this time, and I am here now. You'll not dismiss me like you would the servant I _used_ to be."

"I didn't mean to dismiss you …"

"Good. Then it's settled. I'll accompany you to meet this Mr. Stokes."

Barnabas could see the futility of further argument, and they had reached the near end of Collinsport's main street. As they walked its length, Angelique took in the changes to the town, and noted the many things that remained unchanged from 1795. The shops were shuttered for the evening, but the lights still burned in the front window of the Inn, and lively sounds of activity still emanated from the adjacent docks, home to the town's tavern, card room, and "secret" brothel.

Arriving at the far end of the street, they approached the library. Barnabas knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again loudly and in a sustained way, until at last they heard footsteps and a voice calling out for patience.

"I'm coming, I'm coming …" The door opened to reveal Timothy Stokes. Even in the light of his oil lantern, it was clear how remarkably like Ben Stokes he was in appearance.

Barnabas began, "Please excuse the untimely intrusion. My name is Barnabas Collins …"

"I know who you are," Stokes said. Adding, "I've seen your portrait at the Great House many times."

"Yes, of course." Barnabas used his most genial voice. "May I introduce my fiancé, Miss Angelique Bouchard? We know it's late, but we have a matter of great importance to discuss with you."

"I'll speak with you, Mr. Collins, but not the witch," Stokes said.

Color flamed in Angelique's face, and her eyes held a look all too familiar to Barnabas. "How dare you?" she began.

But Barnabas interceded. "Angelique, please. Go to the Inn and wait for me. I'll join you shortly."

She fumed, "Why do trifle with this self-important _librarian_ , Barnabas? I could force it from him with very little effort."

"Yes, you could," Stokes agreed.

"But I prefer not to," Barnabas spoke up. "Please Angelique, do as I ask."

She gathered herself into her most haughty mien. "Very well, Barnabas." To Stokes, she added, "You'd do well to mind your manners, Mr. Stokes. I can be a formidable enemy."

Stokes bowed slightly. "I can well imagine, Madam."

Angelique turned and headed toward the Inn.

Stokes closed the door behind her. "Well, Mr. Collins, I understand why it couldn't wait until daylight hours," he said knowingly. "So tell me, what brings you to my door?"


	21. Chapter 21

At the great estate at Collinwood, voices from the past echo everywhere. In the halls and corridors of the Great House, in the unused bedrooms of the Old House, in its cemetery, voices call out their laments to the living. Even the estate's farthest corners are not beyond their reach. On a fair day that belies the estate's inherent darkness, Maggie Evans has discovered yet another corner that conceals a secret past.

Maggie felt a blast of cool air rush from the open cellar doors. David rocked back on his heels and dropped to his seat. "What was that?"

Maggie went to close the doors, but as she crouched down she heard something … a voice below in the cellar. The voice seemed to whisper her name.

"Wait here," she told the children.

"Maggie, what are you doing?" David asked.

"I heard something. I'm just going to take a peek," Maggie said. Looking inside, she said, "There's a ladder."

"No, Maggie. Don't go down there," came Amy's worried voice.

"I'll be fine," Maggie told her. "I'm just going to take a quick look around—that's all."

As she unhooked the ladder and started lowering it to the cellar floor, David echoed Amy's anxious tone, "The ladder could be rotten, just like the floorboards in the house."

It was reasonable, yet Maggie felt compelled to go on. "I'll be careful," she said. "You two wait here." Maggie took two tentative steps down the ladder. The daylight shining through the open doors provided ample light as she descended, but as reached the bottom rung, the doors slammed shut above her. "David!" Maggie cried out.

"Maggie!" David called her name and pounded on the cellar doors.

The room was silent. Only a sliver of light reached the floor. Maggie stepped off of the ladder and felt a chill envelope her. "Maggie Evans," a voice said.

"Who are you?" Maggie demanded. "Show yourself."

"Maggie Evans, I choose you."

The voice was so familiar—like an echo or a thought that escaped into the open air. "Who are you?" Maggie asked this time rather than demanding.

"I choose you, Maggie. You must help me."

"Who are you?" Maggie asked as squinted into the darkness. Her eyes could only make out pieces of broken furniture and bits of torn fabric. "Why do you need my help?"

"You must trust me, Maggie. You must help."

Another wave of chill air swept over her, lifting her hair and swirling it around her face. Just then the cellar doors flew open, flooding the cellar with daylight. Maggie heard voices from above, "Maggie, are you alright?"

Maggie carefully ascended the ladder and climbed out into the afternoon sun. "Of course, I'm alright. But I'm not happy about that prank! Closing the doors like that. What were you two thinking?"

"We didn't close the doors, Maggie. Honest," Amy cried, running to Maggie and throwing her arms around her governess. Maggie stroked the trembling child's hair.

"She's right, Maggie. It should be impossible, but they blew shut!" David joined in. "Didn't you hear me banging on the doors?"

"No," Maggie released Amy. "No, I didn't."

"What happened down there?" David asked.

"I … I don't know. Nothing, I guess," she said. In truth, she couldn't remember. All she could remember was standing in the darkness, and then the doors opened. What if this was like her dark time all over again—the missing memories, the vague sense of fear. "It's getting late. We should be getting home."

"I don't think we should tell Aunt Elizabeth about this," David said, picking up the basket, ready to leave. "She won't let us go adventuring again if she thinks something bad might happen."

"I don't like keeping secrets," Maggie began. "But I see no need to worry her, and nothing actually happened." Then looking at Amy's pale face, she added, "But we all have to agree—even you Amy."

David spoke preemptively, "Amy will keep our secret. Won't you, Amy?"

"Oh, yes," Amy said. "I'm good at keeping secrets."

* * *

Collinwood 1897

Barnabas spent two hours companionably in the company of Timothy Stokes. Each man found the other fascinating. Barnabas, for his part, was interested to learn what had become of Ben Stokes, the man who had once been his servant; and Stokes was intrigued by the man he knew to be a vampire. His ancestor's diary had given him the belief that, in spite of being afflicted with a curse, Barnabas was a man of honor and principles. Though his arrival with the sorceress was disconcerting, in the end, Barnabas convinced Stokes of his good intentions. He had given assurances that the wands would not be used for ill, or in service to Angelique's desires. In exchange for the wands, Barnabas had agreed to be interviewed by Stokes—to round out his knowledge of vampirism and the history of Collinwood. Though it entailed some risk, it was small relative to what he stood to gain—the I Ching wands.

Stokes had retrieved the wands from a primitive wall-safe in the small office that adjoined the library. He held the small velvet bag containing the wands in his large hand for several long moments, as though reluctant to part with them.

Seeing this, Barnabas asked, "Perhaps there is something more you require in exchange?"

"It's not that," Stokes replied, still holding the bag. His eyes fixed on it. At last, he held it out and allowed Barnabas to take it from him. "Goodnight, Mr. Collins. Until we meet again." The latter he said half to the vampire, and half to the wands.

Taking the wands, Barnabas returned to the Inn. Angelique was nowhere to be found. He checked the dining room, and then the sitting room. Finally, he sought out the night manager.

"Miss Bouchard took a room and retired for the night," he told Barnabas then added, "She said her bags would follow tomorrow."

Barnabas knew it would be unseemly to seek admittance to her room at such a late hour, especially given that she had arrived with no luggage. The night manager would likely assume the worst. So instead, Barnabas asked the night manager to deliver the message that he would return for Miss Bouchard the following evening. He watched as the manager slowly wrote it down, and then folded it and placed in the small cubby for Room 12, which he assumed was Angelique's room. "Please be sure she receives it first thing in the morning," were Barnabas's parting words.

"Sir," the night manager eyed him narrowly, but gave him a small, formal bow.

Barnabas left the Inn and stood just outside in the cool night air. It would be easy for him to transform into a bat and materialize in Angelique's room, but he thought it unwise both on a personal level and for her reputation in the small, inquisitive town. On the personal level, he'd been so lonely during his time in 1897. He felt desperate for the companionship of someone who knew him for what he was, but was not under his thrall. In short, he wanted to be himself with someone—and no one knew him better than Angelique—except perhaps Julia Hoffman. He knew Angelique well too though, and thus knew the vulnerability—danger even—of giving in to such longings. Giving into Angelique's allures had led him to his current state. Though it was long in the past, and her harder facets had softened, she was Angelique still. He must remember that.

Setting his misgivings aside, what he proposed to do next might be better done without her being present. So he returned down the main street toward the Collinsport Road. From there he would walk through the woods to the Great House, then employ the expediency of turning into a bat to reach Quentin's apartment undetected.

By then it was getting late and yet he did not want to wait until the next day. He could only imagine and extrapolate from his own experience, Quentin's sense of hopelessness. He was determined to intervene and offer some hope for the future.

He materialized outside Quentin's apartment in the west wing. It was so quiet and still. He put his ear to the door, but heard nothing. Yet there was illumination shining from under the door. He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, and said, "Quentin—it's me, Barnabas. I must speak to you. Open the door, please." He waited and then tried again for what must be the final time, "Please Quentin—I must speak to you."

At last he heard his cousin's voice through the door. "Not now, Barnabas. It's late."

"I know it's late, but I wouldn't have come if weren't important."

The door opened suddenly, and Quentin stood before him in rolled up shirtsleeves, pants held up by suspenders, and seemingly little else. His feet were bare, and his hair was in a state of disarray, and yet he did not seem to have been asleep. Behind him, Barnabas could see an open bottle of brandy on the table, but his cousin seemed clear-eyed. "As I said, Barnabas, it's late, and I'm not in the mood for company," Quentin said flatly.

"I wouldn't have come so late if it weren't important," Barnabas repeated.

"Very well, Barnabas, if you insist. Come in," Quentin said, stepping aside and allowing his cousin to enter his rooms.

Barnabas began, "Now that I'm here, I hardly know where to begin." They sat at the small table in his sitting room.

"Would a drink help?" Quentin asked.

"It's that that I've come to speak to you about."

"If you're here to tell me that I can't live the rest of my life in a state of inebriation …" Quentin began.

"Only indirectly," Barnabas interjected.

"It helps dull the pain, Barnabas."

"What if there was another way?" Barnabas asked. Quentin raised his eyebrow, tacitly inviting Barnabas to continue. Quentin sat and poured himself another drink. "May I join you?" Barnabas asked.

"Please do." Quentin gestured to a second glass on the mantle.

Barnabas retrieved it and sat opposite Quentin at the small table. Quentin filled the glass as Barnabas began, "Did you ever wonder about my _interest_ in Rachel?"

"Well, yes and no. I mean it's obvious why a man would be drawn to someone like Rachel," Quentin said, puzzled by Barnabas's train of thought.

"It was more than that. She very much reminded me of someone else—someone from another time," Barnabas said.

"I don't understand," was Quentin's impatient response.

"You see, Quentin, I have traveled through time." Barnabas took a long, slow sip of brandy. "I was cursed in 1795. It was Angelique who placed the curse on me. At that time, I was in love with a young woman, Josette DuPres. Perfidy led me to Angelique's arms. Our tryst meant more to her than it did to me. When I told her I could never love her—that I was and always would be in love with Josette—she turned me into the creature I am today. Later that year, my father discovered what I'd become, and had me chained in my coffin, but not before I'd done a great deal of damage, including setting in motion a series of events that led to Josette's death. I stayed, chained in my coffin, until the year 1968, when I was inadvertently freed."

"Now I really don't understand," Quentin said, though this time with interest.

"I traveled here from 1968 to help a friend. A young man trapped by the werewolf curse, as you were. In my time— _in the future_ , we tried everything to break the curse and its hold on my young friend, but to no avail. In desperation, I summoned Angelique to help me. She helped bring me to this time and place.

"When I saw Rachel, I nearly forgot my purpose for being here. She looked so much like my long dead love, Josette. And in my time—in 1968 that is—there is another young woman named Maggie—Maggie Evans—who also looks very much like Josette. I have chased Josette through the ages. I tried to remake Maggie into Josette, and I nearly broke her. And then I thought to do so again with Rachel. But when I saw the two of you together, I saw how it was between you—perhaps before you saw it yourselves. It was then that I realized that neither one of them—neither Maggie nor Rachel—would ever be Josette. She is dead and gone and I must accept it." He went on, "I am at last ready to accept that Josette is gone forever. I do not want this same fate for you Quentin—to live with unceasing regret. To see the object of your unabated affection, in every woman who bears a resemblance to her. It has been my torment. But you Quentin, I believe it can be different for you. You still have a chance for happiness with Rachel. You must seize it."

"What are you talking about Barnabas? She's dead. Rachel is dead," Quentin sobbed, suddenly overcome.

"Yes—in _this_ time, she is dead. But you can go to her—in the _past_ ," Barnabas said. "You can go back and prevent what you now know is to come. You can intervene to prevent Trask from harming her."

"But how, Barnabas. How can I go to her?"

"With these," Barnabas answered and from his pocket he drew out the small velvet drawstring bag.

Quentin took the proffered bag and opened it. From it, he partially drew out several lacquer-finished wands. "What are these?" he asked, fixing Barnabas with an inquisitive stare.

"I Ching wands—used in an ancient rite of divination," Barnabas told him portentously. "A set of wands similar to these brought me here from 1968."

"How do they work?"

"You focus and concentrate on the problem to be solved, or the objective to be gained then throw the wands. They form a hexagram. Each hexagram opens a door to discovery and understanding or transformation or resolution. A guide can help you enter the trance and return safely. In 1968, Angelique is my guide."

"But she's here." Quentin was clearly confused.

"Because I summoned her to this time to help me lift your curse. Angelique is a creature untethered to time and place. I am relying on her to return to 1968 ahead of me and bring me safely out of the I Ching trance state.

"All that remains before I return is to help you find some measure of peace and happiness—with these. If I had had the power of the I Ching in 1795, I believe that I would have used it to save Josette."

"If I understand you correctly, you still can," Quentin told him.

"No," Barnabas responded sadly. "Too much has changed— _I_ have changed. I know now that my love for Josette was selfish, that I wronged her in so many ways. Had I put her above my need to possess her, everything might have been different … well, I am trying everyday to put that behind me—to give purpose to what I've learned and what I've endured—in short, to help you, Quentin. You have a chance to go back and save Rachel. The wands will lead you to the proper time and place."

"And if I'm unsuccessful? What then?"

"I believe the I Ching will return you to your own time, and you'll be no worse off for trying."

"You _believe_ , but you don't know for certain," Quentin challenged him.

In the distance, a cock crowed signaling the approach of dawn. "I know you have many questions, and we have much to discuss, but I must go now. I'll return this evening after sunset. We can speak more about it then." With that, Barnabas was gone, leaving the wands peeking out of the velvet bag on the table.

* * *

As the orange glow of dawn melted into early morning, Quentin was still pacing his sitting room, lost in thought. He turned the velvet bag and its intriguing contents in his hand. _Could it be_? Could the small bag he held in his hand contain the power to move through time? As unlikely as it seemed, he had witnessed many strange and powerful forces. Even before he himself was cursed, he and Evan had explored the mystical powers of the occult together. It was only after his return from his travels with Laura that he had distanced himself from it—only to be dragged back into it unwillingly by Magda's curse.

He opened the bag and looked at the wands. There was a knock on the door. Quentin placed the bag on the mantle and went to the door. Opening it, he said, "Good morning, Judith." He offered her admittance to the sitting room.

"Quentin?"

"You seem surprised to see me in my own rooms," he laughed.

"It's just that I've come everyday, and you never open the door," she explained.

"Yet you keep trying. How like you, Judith."

"Really, Quentin," she began to chastise him, but he interrupted her.

"You misunderstand me. I love you for it. When everyone else has given up on me, you still come everyday to check on my wellbeing—and I do love you for it." His tone was gentle—sentimental even.

Sensing this, Judith asked, "Quentin, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Judith. Can't I tell my big sister that I love her?"

"Of course," Judith said, tears forming in her eyes. How long had it been since he'd called her that. She went to him and fluffed his hair as she frequently did when he was a boy. Then she caressed his cheek. "You'll always be my baby brother—and I'll always look after you, just as I have since the day you were born." Quentin covered her hand with his. Taking it from his cheek, he kissed it lightly. Judith blinked back the tears, cleared her throat, and asked, "Why don't you join me for breakfast this morning? It will do you a world of good to get out of these rooms and have a change of scene."

"I'm sorry, Judith, not today. Tomorrow—I promise. I've been awake all night, and I'd like to rest now, but tomorrow …" He glanced at the bag on the mantle. "Tomorrow will be different—I promise."

"Very well, get some rest," she said. Then she left him, closing the door behind her.

* * *

Quentin went at once to the mantle and retrieved the bag containing the I Ching wands. He cleared the small table of the half bottle of brandy and the glasses. Then he sat down, opened the bag and removed the wands. He held them in his hand and examined them closely for the first time. There were six in all. Each was black lacquer; each had one side with a piece of white inlay. He could almost feel their power as he held them in his hand. He slipped the wands back into the bag and placed it on the table before him.

He stood and paced to the mantle. Resting his hands on the mantle, they came to frame Rachel's broach, still where he'd left it a few interminable days ago.

Barnabas had used the wands to travel through time—to go back through time to remove the curse—to help his friend. If Barnabas could use them to travel back through time, so would he. He would use the wands to go back and prevent Rachel's death as Barnabas suggested he could. All he needed to do was prevent her from meeting Trask that evening. Barnabas had given him the means to do so.

He turned back and his eyes found the bag on the table. Impatience flooded him. What would he do with himself until Barnabas returned? He should wait for Barnabas's return. He _should_ wait for his cousin to serve as his guide. But, they practically beckoned him—they were too inviting. He returned to the table and sat. He took up the bag again. He worked the drawstring open with his fingers until the wands peeked out again from within. He drew them out once more.

He must know— _now_ —not later. He would concentrate as Barnabas had said. He would focus—but he would focus on a time before Rachel's death. He held the wands tightly in one hand. He took one last look around the room. It would be different when he returned—everything would be different. He closed his eyes, and in his mind's eye he pictured Rachel, alive and well, happy and in love. He threw the wands on the table, and opened his eyes. He straightened them to form a loosely organized hexagram. He wanted to close his eyes again to focus his concentration, but found he could not. He could not look away from the hexagram. It seemed to spin around and around before his eyes—drawing him deeper and deeper in, until he no longer saw his room around him, only pitch blackness.

He was in a long dark hallway. He turned back, but there was nothing behind him but darkness. So he moved forward down the hall. There were no voices, no sounds. Moving in small cautious steps, he went forward down the hall. He lost track of how many steps or how far he moved. There was nothing.

Just as his hope was failing him, he saw something ahead. It was nothing more than a pinprick of light ahead. He moved toward it, cautiously at first then in long quick strides as it grew closer and closer. The pinprick grew to a long narrow ray of light. As he neared it, he could see that it was an opening—a doorway lay ahead. He reached for the doorknob. Looking back, there was nothing. The hallway had disappeared—there was only darkness—and only one way to go—forward.

He turned the knob, opened the door, and stepped into the foyer. He was at Collinwood at the doors of the drawing room.

* * *

She was pacing in front of the fireplace, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. _Where was he?_ Should she go in search of her fiancé? He was late. And now time was growing short. She needed to leave. She could not wait any longer if she was going to make it to the Old House and back before their guests arrived.

Just then the drawing room doors opened. "Rachel? You're here!" There stood her errant fiancé. He looked quite wild. "You're here," he repeated, approaching her.

"Well, of course I'm here. I told you I'd meet you here," she started. "Look at you. You're not even dressed. Judith will be furious."

He took her in his arms, and kissed her—gently at first then with more passion. "Quentin, someone might see us," she said.

"I don't care. I love you, Rachel, and I want everyone to know it," he smiled.

"Presumably that's why you're marrying me tomorrow," she said, returning his smile, but with questions in her eyes.

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow. Why aren't you dressed? _Go_ —you should go get dressed for dinner," she laughed. "Really, Quentin, what brought you downstairs half dressed?"

He looked down surveying himself—rolled up shirtsleeves as though he'd been doing manual labor, pants, and no shoes. "I …" He was at a loss to explain. He tried to remember why he'd come in such haste and urgency, but he could not.

"Anyway," she began, "I have to go the Old House to speak to Barnabas. I won't be gone long."

"The Old House?"

"Yes—I need to speak to Barnabas."

"Fine," he said. "I'll come with you. Just give me a few minutes to dress and I'll accompany you."

"I need to have a private word with Barnabas, Quentin. I promise it won't take long."

"No. You mustn't go to the Old House alone. Do you understand?" he told her firmly.

"No, I don't understand," was her perplexed response.

Nor did he. All he knew with certainty was that he was filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. "I forbid it!" he shouted at her. "I forbid it."

"You _forbid_ it? I'll not be spoken to like that, Quentin. I'll not be treated like that. Is that how you intend to treat me once we're married?" she asked rhetorically. Her eyes were alight with indignation.

"Rachel, I'm sorry. I didn't mean …"

She cut him off, "I know what it's like to be treated like someone's property, and I won't go through that again." Tears formed in her eyes. She ran from the drawing room, and out the doors of the Great House—stopping only long enough to take her shawl from its peg by the door.

Quentin, wild-eyed with equal parts fear and self-reproach, ran upstairs in search of his boots. A short time later, he followed Rachel down the path through the woods that led from the Great House to the Old House. He knew that he trusted her—it was not that that drove him. And yet, there remained some unnamed fear, a sense of unmistakable foreboding. There was a fork in the path. One branch continued on through the woods and eventually to the cemetery; the other, like a small tributary, led to the Old House.

It was there, just beyond the turn, that he found her. He went to her at once. Blood saturated her dress and shawl. He knelt to cradle and lift her. "No," she whispered. "It's too late."

"No, Rachel. I'll take you home, we'll call the doctor … you'll be alright."

She put blood stained fingertips to his lips. "It was Trask," she whispered. "I should have known he would never let me go."

"No, Rachel," Quentin said through tears. "It's not supposed to end this way." He cradled her tightly in his arms.

"I … I" was all she could eke out before her strength failed her. She was dead.

Quentin held her lifeless body in his arms. He closed his eyes and let the tears come.

Then his world went dark. He could almost feel a force take him by the shoulders and pull him back. His head snapped back. The wands winked up at him mockingly.

* * *

Quentin stood and stalked to the window. It had worked. Barnabas was right. The wands had allowed him to move through time. He had focused on Rachel—Rachel in love with him and he with her. It had worked—but the outcome was the same. He had not been able to save her. He had failed her. He'd returned with nothing to show for his efforts other than the fresh pain of losing Rachel all over again.

He walked back to the table and picked up the wands, destroying the hexagram in the process. Again, he felt their power like a spark in his hand. He must control them. He must master them and bend them to his will. He squeezed them tightly as though to communicate his dominance to the wands. He thought of Rachel—not the woman he loved, but the shy governess who first came to Collinwood. He pictured her quiet and reserved moving about the Great House, nearly beyond his notice.

He sat and threw the wands. They landed. He organized them—a different hexagram showed, but it was no less compelling than the first. He could not take his eyes from it. Again, it began to spin before him, drawing him in. He was caught in its slipstream and found himself once again in the dark.

He followed the dark narrow hallway once again. This time he walked with strong, confident steps—looking for the door and what lay behind it. He had a different sense this time—it was as though he was climbing. It was as though the entire hallway was on an incline leading upward.

At last he saw it—a pinpoint of light in the distance ahead of him. He picked up his pace. As it had before, it grew as he drew closer to it. It grew until it became a slim vertical beam of light. It was the door.

In a matter of a dozen steps, he reached it. He turned the knob and opened the door. He looked back. The dark passage was gone. Instead, Rachel stood there looking at him expectantly. They were on the landing at the top of the stairs just outside the Tower Room. He whispered, "I'll go in; you stay here. Let me know if anyone comes."

"I'd rather come with you," she whispered back. "You might need my help."

"I'll be fine and I'd rather you were out of harm's way."

Quentin tried a number of different keys on the ring before the lock clicked open. He stepped into the room. A few moments passed as he surveyed the small room. There were signs of recent occupancy, but no one was there now. He turned to the door, "You may as well come in. We're too late."

Rachel entered and looked around the cell-like room. The narrow bed against one wall drew her attention. One corner of the thin mattress was bent up, resting against the wall. She could see something pale pink poking out from under it. She went to examine it. "What's this"? she asked. Lifting the corner, she removed a baby-doll—its flesh was pink, its head was painted with auburn curls.

"One of Nora's?" Quentin asked.

"Maybe," she responded, "but if so, I've never seen it before. And what's it doing up here?"

"Quentin?" came a shrill voice through the open door.

He recognized it at once. "Jenny?" Shock and disbelief flooded him. "Jenny, you're …"

"Who is she," his wife demanded. "Why is she holding my baby?"

Jenny's eyes were wild; her hair was a tangled rust-colored mass. Her hands were buried deep in the pockets of a soiled, ill-fitting dress, and her arms were drawn in tight against her body. It was Jenny, but she was a pale imitation of the vibrant woman he'd married.

"She's Rachel," Quentin said soothingly to the madwoman who was his wife. "She's Jamison and Nora's governess."

"Is she here to take my baby away?" Jenny asked, eyes blazing.

Rachel stepped forward and held the doll out to her. "No—here it is. Take it. It's yours."

But the madwoman rushed at her, drawing a knife from the pocket of her dress, and slashing at unprepared governess. Rachel staggered back as Jenny lunged for her. She cried out in pain as Jenny threw herself onto her, knife still in hand. Jenny wanted nothing more than to forcibly take the doll from Rachel, though she had offered the doll voluntarily. Quentin tried to restrain his wife. Desperately trying to wrap his arms around her and pull her away from the now helpless Rachel. Jenny grabbed the doll from Rachel. Quentin managed to pull his wife to her feet. All thoughts of Quentin, Rachel or the knife were vanquished from Jenny's disturbed mind. The doll was her sole concern. She ran from the room with the doll in hand—her cackling laughter echoing down the stairwell behind her.

Quentin went at once to Rachel. In the brief encounter, she had sustained a number of scratches and cuts—no doubt from Jenny's desperate attempt to secure the doll. Tears filled Quentin's eyes as he saw the handle of the knife still implanted in Rachel's chest. He cradled her gently. Blood flowed on unstaunched from the wound. His hand went to the handle of the knife. "No," she whispered. A few tears escaped her eyes.

It was inadequate, but he told her, "I'm so sorry. I should never have involved you. This was not supposed to happen."

He closed his eyes. This was not supposed to happen. She should have lived. This time, she should have lived.

Darkness enveloped him. His breath was rough and ragged; his face was wet with tears. He opened his eyes. The deceitful wands lay before him. He angrily scattered them across the table.

* * *

Perhaps he did not go back far enough. Maybe he should try to stop her from coming to Collinwood at all. If she had stayed at Worthington Hall, would she still be alive? Would she consider it living to be forever at the mercy of the Trasks?

He needed a drink.

Quentin stood for a long time looking at the liquid in his glass—its deep amber undertones and the ripples and eddies it formed as he swirled it to and fro. Then he set it aside untouched.

He returned to the table, and gathered the wands together. Then darkness welled up inside of him. It was as though the I Ching tapped into every misdeed he'd ever committed and sought to punish him for them by making him relive Rachel's death again and again—first at Trask's hands, then by Jenny's.

It was true that he had earned his place as the black sheep of the family. Even Judith, though she had of late rediscovered the affection she felt for him when he was a boy, saw the darkness in his soul. Every life he touched, he ruined—Jenny, Beth, and now Rachel, to say nothing of the acts he committed in his werewolf form.

Perhaps the I Ching was telling him that there truly was nothing left for him there. Perhaps, if he would allow it, the wands would lead him to a time and place free of his past—free of the mistakes and missteps—free of the lives he took—free from his pain and from the pain he caused others.

Perhaps, if he would allow it, the I Ching would free him. And while that would be more mercy than he deserved, he still resisted. He didn't want to … he _couldn't_ surrender to what the wands tried to show him—that Rachel was truly lost to him—that losing Rachel and all she represented was his penance—the price he must pay for his misdeeds. If so, it was cruel justice indeed.

Maybe Barnabas was wrong and no guide was needed for the I Ching. Maybe the I Ching itself was the guide. The I Ching had offered Barnabas a chance to atone for his past. By bringing him here to lift the curse, perhaps it offered Barnabas some measure of peace, or perhaps Barnabas had yet to divine the I Ching's true purpose for him. It was hubris that convinced Barnabas that he could act as Quentin's guide. He could clearly see now that no guide was needed.

Suddenly, weariness suffused his entire body. All at once, the physical dissipation that characterized grief overtook him. He released the wands onto the table and tacitly yielded to their will.

The wands tumbled out gently before him. Almost of their own volition, they formed a hexagram. He stared at it for what seemed a long time, and yet nothing happened. He closed his eyes and he could picture the hexagram like an image seared on the back of his eyelids. There was only darkness and the image of the hexagram—and yet, he felt movement. It was as though the hexagram itself was carrying him forward. There was no pinprick of light, just the wands—just the hexagram. So he followed it on through a narrow corridor of darkness, until it was clear where it was leading him. There was a door—a double set of doors just ahead. And just as the doors came into view, the image of the hexagram came apart, as though it scattered itself across his mind's eye, just as he had scattered the wands across the table earlier. Then they were gone and all that remained was to open the doors.


	22. Chapter 22

Dawn, the universal symbol of rebirth and new beginnings, but at the Great House at Collinwood, dawn unveils new mysteries. One woman, Maggie Evans, rises at dawn and wonders what will unfold that day—what visitation, or whispering voice, or unsettled spirit—will manifest itself.

Maggie looked out of the window of her room—the governess's room—as dawn's first light grew at the horizon. The room had been reserved for the governess of the household for generations. It had been her friend Vicki's when she was the governess; now, it was Maggie's.

Maggie Evans was the quintessential small town girl—and the town was Collinsport, Maine. She had grown up there, lived there her entire life with her father. Her mother had died when she was quite young, and it had been just her and her "Pop," as she affectionately referred to her father, for practically as long as she could remember. It had been a good life. Her father was a painter and they lived in a tiny, but comfortable cottage on the edge of town. Pop painted, and she grew up unremarkably.

While there were few prospects for going beyond high school for most in a town like Collinsport, Maggie made the most of the opportunities provided. She was a voracious reader and Pop taught her lots about art, local history, and geography. From time to time, they had splurged on a trip to Boston or New York to visit museums and eat in nice restaurants, but that was the extent of her experience of the world. She had started junior college then her father's financial situation intervened and she had to quit school and get a job at the coffee shop. Yet, she never felt like her life was lacking or wanting—though she could look no farther than Collinwood to know that others had much more. Maggie wasn't envious; she and Pop had a good life.

Later, when she dated and became engaged to Joe Haskell, Maggie thought she knew the trajectory of her life. Joe would work at the Collins cannery, until he saved up enough money to buy his own boat. She would work somewhere in town. Eventually, they would have kids and grow old together watching their kids have kids. But it was not to be.

She could not pinpoint the day that their good life had changed, but it had. It was as though a long dark finger extending out from Collinwood had touched them, ensnaring them in the estate's mysteries. One-by-one, she, Pop, and Joe had each had their life irreparably altered—Pop's unexplained blindness and death, Joe's madness and institutionalization, and of course, Maggie's own kidnapping and amnesia. Whatever force took hold of their lives, it ravaged and separated the once happy trio.

And then Maggie's friend Vicki had been drawn into the tides of Collinwood's mysteries. She had left Collinwood without a word to anyone—something Vicki would never have done of her own volition.

It was odd when Mrs. Stoddard asked Maggie to take Vicki's place as governess to David and Amy. Perhaps she thought that as a local girl, Maggie would be familiar with and inured to the mysteries of the Great House. Or perhaps she'd sought some continuity and familiarity for the children, who must have been upset by Vicki's disappearance. Either way, the offer had come at just the right time. At that moment in her life, Maggie was alone. She wanted nothing more than to belong to something and someone. For now, it was David and Amy—especially Amy. Amy too was alone in the world, and Maggie felt a special bond with the girl as a result.

Maggie had settled into a rhythm at Collinwood. She would wake early, especially of late. The Great House was preternaturally quiet then. She would set up their lessons for the day, and then join her charges for breakfast in the small family dining room. From there the day unfolded as it did for most schoolchildren—morning lessons, followed by lunch at midday, then afternoon lessons—punctuated by breaks to play outside or take walks in fair weather, or play games inside if it was inclement outdoors. Still, she loved the flexibility to change plans on short notice if, for example, the weather was exceptionally nice, as it was the previous day.

Although there was a room upstairs set aside as a classroom, Maggie often liked to do school work in the library. She still marveled at the notion of having a personal library at one's disposal. She thought the residents of the Great House too often overlooked it, so she took it upon herself to infuse the room with life and activity.

On this particular morning, Maggie selected a suitable outfit from the wardrobe—short-sleeve turtleneck sweater, plaid A-line skirt, and sensible loafers—and dressed for the day. Then she headed downstairs. The only person who was typically awake earlier that her was Mrs. Johnson. So Maggie went to the kitchen in hope of getting a cup of coffee to enjoy while she set up the lessons in the library. In the kitchen, she found the percolator was full, but Mrs. Johnson was nowhere to be found. She was probably somewhere around the rambling house already hard at work. So Maggie poured herself a mug of coffee and headed to the library.

She'd just emerged through the door into the foyer, when the front door of the Great House opened. Julia Hoffman came in, oblivious to Maggie's presence. She removed her coat and hung it on a hook in the alcove off of the foyer. She emitted a long, audible sigh. Then she turned to enter the foyer proper and was startled to see Maggie there. "Maggie?" Julia's eyes widened and her hand reflexively clutched at the scarf she wore around her neck.

"I'm sorry, Julia. I didn't mean to startle you," Maggie told her. Putting the pieces together, Maggie suspected something was amiss her friend, but she didn't probe.

"You're up early," the doctor said to Maggie, in what seemed like a psychiatrist trick to keep the focus off of themselves.

"Yes. I slept remarkably well last night. So I rose early this morning refreshed and watched the sun rise," Maggie said in a sunny voice.

"I'm glad the sedatives I prescribed are helping," Julia observed.

"That's just it. I didn't take a sedative last night. I went to sleep the old fashioned way," Maggie laughed. "I was so tired, I just closed my eyes, and sleep found me. And I had no dreams, no unearthly visitations—just sleep."

Julia bestowed a wary smile. "I'm glad to hear it. Every doctor wants to work their self out of a job—because it means the patient is cured."

"I never thought of it that way," Maggie said.

"Well, if things change …" Julia began.

Maggie pursed her lips and considered whether to tell Julia about what happened on the farm. No, she decided. She felt better—really better—for the first time in a long time. It was best to leave it alone, and enjoy the feeling for as long as it lasted. "Thanks, Julia," she said. Then she began, "And what about you? You're up and about awfully early."

"Yes," Julia responded in her characteristic thoughtful drawl, dragging out the word as though it were its own train of thought. "I find myself drawn to sunrise as well. Lately, I find I enjoy nothing more than an early morning walk around the estate," Julia added. A part of her longed to take her young friend into her confidence—to tell her of her early morning visits to the mausoleum, to seek reassurance that she was doing what was best for Chris, and for Amy. But she would tamp down that longing. With Barnabas gone, she must keep her counsel and continue to look after the young man on her own.

As though she had a window into Julia's mind, Maggie asked, "Have you heard from Barnabas lately?"

"No. Why do you ask?" Julia responded through narrowed eyes.

Maggie didn't notice her friend's guarded affect. "It's not like him to be away so long, and I thought if there was anyone he would get in touch with, it would be you. You two are such good friends," she added lightly.

Julia smiled, but before she could respond, the phone rang shattering the early morning quiet. "I'd better get that before it wakes everyone else," Maggie said, already moving toward the phone in the drawing room. "Hello. Yes, this is the Collinwood Estate. Dr. Hoffman?" Maggie glanced over her shoulder to see that Julia had joined her in the drawing room and was looking at her with a slightly puzzled expression. "Yes. May I tell her who's calling?" Maggie covered the mouthpiece with her hand and said softly to Julia, "It's the duty nurse at Windcliff. She'd like to speak to you."

Maggie discretely sat in the armchair as Julia took the call. "Dr. Hoffman speaking," Julia began. A long pause ensued during which Maggie assumed the duty nurse described the situation that required such an early phone call. She could hear Julia's affirmative, encouraging responds. "Yes, I see." Followed by "Go on." Julia looked at her watch and sighed. "Of course. If I leave now, I can be there in time to accompany Dr. Fisher on rounds." Julia hung up the phone and stood drumming her fingers, lost in thought.

"I believe it's customary in these situations to say 'I couldn't help but overhear …'" Maggie said. "Heading up to Windcliff?"

Julia turned to her. "Yes, I'm afraid so. I've been asked consult on a case." She looked at her watch again. "I'd better get going. I just need to get my bag before I go," Julia said, thinking aloud.

Maggie held up her coffee mug. "There's coffee in the kitchen. Would you like some before you go? I'd be happy to get it for you while you go upstairs."

Julia smiled at the solicitous gesture. "No thanks, Maggie. I'll stop somewhere along the way."

Maggie watched as Julia crossed the foyer and headed upstairs to retrieve her medical bag. Then she returned her own thoughts to the day ahead, and her lesson plans for David and Amy.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

At the Collinsport Inn, Angelique Bouchard watched the sun rise from the armchair in which she had spent the night. Sitting up all night had afforded little enough sleep, but it was the practical thing to do. She thought how inconvenient it was to arrive in this time without any possessions of her own. Today, while Barnabas slept confined to his coffin, she would remedy that.

She smiled and thought how much she would enjoy using her status as Barnabas's fiancé to take care of her material needs. She'd been disappointed that he had not come to see her the previous evening. She'd been furious at being dismissed from his conversation with the librarian, Stokes. She was not accustomed to being treated that way by anyone, let alone by a descendant of Ben Stokes. But as she sat in the lounge of the Inn, letting her temper cool and waiting for Barnabas's return, she began to savor the small victory she'd accomplished—Barnabas had summoned her at last. He wanted her help. He _needed_ her help. And it was he who had first introduced her as his fiancé. She had not coerced, threatened, or tricked him. He had chosen it. He'd been jealous of another man's attention to her. It must mean something. It must signal something—some change in the way things stood between them. It was something she'd wanted for so long.

With that in mind, she had retired to her room, and awaited him. When he had not come, she began to suspect that it was the mores of this time that kept him from joining her. Having a man visit a single woman, even his fiancé, alone in her room, would invite speculation. Their voices would have been heard in the neighboring room or in the hallway, and it surely would excite conversation among the local populace. She could understand why he had not come. Towns like Collinsport had evolved little enough in the hundred years that had elapsed since she first arrived there from Martinique. City life might reflect the rapid change that new modes of transport and faster communication brought, but towns like Collinsport saw their quaint, outmoded ways as a lifeline rather than an anchor that weighed them down and fixed them firmly in the past. It gave her hope to know that by 1968 all of that would change.

On her first full day in 1897, Angelique made a show of telling the day manager of the Collinsport Inn about how her bags must have been misdirected, because they had yet to arrive. She had asked to have a full complement of personal items sent from the local store. When they arrived, she freshened up. Afterward, she enjoyed breakfast in the dining room of the Inn.

A short time later, she made her way to the local dress shop. There, she purchased a number of ready-manufactured dresses, a short cloak, and an assortment of undergarments. From there, she went to the shoemaker, who promised her a second pair of shoes to supplement the travel boots she'd arrived in by the end of the next day. Her final stop of the day was the milliner's shop. Here she enjoyed having both proprietress and the shop-girl bring out an array of hats from which to choose.

Though she'd been in Collinsport for only one evening, news of her arrival preceded her. At each stop, she invoked her engagement to Barnabas Collins—and everywhere she went, the Collins name afforded her the status of the town's leading family, and a line of credit to match. She found that she enjoyed it a great deal. She also found, inconvenience and antiquated mores aside, it was a gracious time. Its slower pace was reminiscent of 1795, but with more variety, quality, and diversions.

By the time she returned to the Inn, it was already mid-afternoon. Stopping at the desk, she learned that her purchases from the dress shop had already arrived and been placed in her room. Unfortunately, she also learned that she had missed the midday meal served in the dining room. She felt ravenous and communicated as much, as well as her disappointment, to the manager of the Inn. A short time later, a cold lunch tray was delivered to her room along with a pot of tea.

After lunch, she rested, refreshed herself, and then dressed in one of the new dresses she'd purchased. By then, sunset was not far off. She would make her way to the Old House, and be there in time to greet Barnabas when he rose.

* * *

When Barnabas woke that evening, he found Sandor waiting for him, as was customary. Though his gypsy servant was slow moving and taciturn by nature, Barnabas had come to understand Sandor's nuances of behavior. Today he detected some agitation or elevation of mood. It would be an overstatement to say that Sandor was excited, but he radiated an energy to which Barnabas was unaccustomed. Rising from his coffin, Barnabas asked, "What is it? Has Magda returned?"

"No," Sandor drawled, "Tisn't that."

"Well, what then?" he returned impatiently.

"A woman's upstairs to see you," he said slowly. Then added, "Says you and her are betrothed."

"Ah, Angelique is here."

"Aye. It's true then?" Sandor asked with mild interest.

Barnabas stood adjusting his clothing—tugging at his shirt cuffs, smoothing his jacket. "Yes, it's true." Barnabas sighed.

"You never said nothing about having a woman," Sandor remarked as indifferently as if he were discussing the weather.

"It only happened quite recently," Barnabas responded as he moved toward the steps that led up and out of the Old House cellar. Sandor followed behind, slowly moving in Barnabas's wake. "I'm not sure how to feel about it," Barnabas said, thinking aloud.

"She's pretty, though I think Magda'd say to beware o' that kind of pretty," Sandor gave a small snort of laughter.

It had been so long since Barnabas had heard his usually morose servant laugh, that he stopped and turned to face him. "Magda would say that and she'd be right."

Returning his thoughts to the woman upstairs, Sandor said, "I told her you weren't about, but she did insist on staying just the same."

"It's alright, Sandor. She knows about me … what I am," Barnabas replied.

"And she do love you anyway?" the servant mused more than asked. "I guess she do really love you."

Barnabas paused, causing Sandor to nearly bump into him. "Yes, I believe she does, and yet my relationship with Angelique is far more complex than simple love. There is love and there is _love_."

"Still, if the woman do love you in spite of what you are—what you _do_ —that's rare indeed."

* * *

Angelique paced floor in front of the fireplace of the Old House of the Collinwood Estate. She'd arrived in advance of sunset and been met at the door of the estate's old mansion by Barnabas's gypsy servant.

She had heard a great deal about him and his wife while at the milliner's shop. The proprietress and the shop-girl had hinted that town disapproved of the presence of the gypsies on the estate. They had intimated that it was old Edith Collins who had originally allowed them to stay, but the townsfolk had hoped that the family would turn the gypsies out after the old woman died. So they were disappointed when the recently arrived Collins cousin had taken a liking to Sandor and Magda and kept them on as servants at the Old House. All this Angelique had gleaned not from what they said directly, but from reading between the lines during her hour and a half of trying on hats and shopping for gloves and a purse.

As to Sandor himself, he was exactly what Angelique expected from a servant in the thrall of a vampire. He was a sad-sack of a man—reluctant and dispirited. As soon as he opened the door, he had tried to dissuade Angelique from staying. His master was out, he told her. His master wasn't expected back until later, he told her. And finally, when those excuses failed, he had told her the house was cold. He hadn't laid the fires yet, and wouldn't she be more comfortable waiting at the Great House. She had swept past him and into the drawing room.

Once there, Angelique removed her hat and gloves, but kept her short cloak on, as the house was indeed quite chilly. Sandor had stood examining her from the entryway. She turned, faced him, and with characteristic imperiousness dismissed him, saying, "You may go."

Now she surveyed the Old House drawing room. It was little changed from the time she first laid eyes on it a century ago. But time, abandonment, and the gypsies had not been kind to the house. Everything from the furniture to the window treatments reeked of dilapidated gentility. Still, with a woman's touch, she could make something of this house. It would never be as grand as the Great House. Its older style was not suited to it, but it could be cleaner, brighter, infused with life—if only Barnabas would let her. But he would not. Keeping the house in the same state it was in when he intended it to be his home with Josette was both a reflection of his nostalgia for his long dead love and his need to punish himself over what became of her.

At last, she heard the door of the basement creak open—the hinges clearly had been devoid of lubrication for a generation. Then Barnabas stood in the entryway to the room, his servant waiting at his elbow.

"Thank you, Sandor. You may leave," Barnabas said.

A short time later, Barnabas escorted Angelique through the woods to the Great House.

"I thought saw you once in these woods," Barnabas said. "I thought you came to tease and taunt me."

"And was that an expression of your desires, Barnabas? Did you wish me to come to you?"

"A great many things might be different now if it had been you. I killed a woman that night."

"Believing her to be me?" Angelique asked.

"No. I followed her believing her to be you, but when I caught up to her …" He paused as the memory of what he'd done flooded back. "Desperation and hunger drove me to it," he replied.

She read his tone at once, "Oh, Barnabas, you have so many regrets. I fear that has become your defining characteristic. But I'm here now to remind you what power feels like uncoupled from your unhelpful tendency to indulge your regret."

"No, Angelique. I will never be so," he told her firmly.

"How unfortunate given your particular affliction," she said smiling.

"Yes. It was hard to return to being what I am, having walked in daylight in 1968. But I am resigned and with each passing day, the affliction, as you call it, becomes more a part of me and I a part of it."

She marveled at his restraint. He could have asked her to remove the curse, but he did not. It led her to wonder whether somewhere beneath his superficial revulsion, there was a part of him that embraced what he was—what she made him. Either way, he did not ask, and she did not offer.

They walked on in silence for a time before Barnabas giving voice to his train of thought began solemnly, "My purpose now is to be of service to Quentin, and to help my cousin Judith." They made their way up the final distance of the lane that connected the two homes, in silent reflection.

* * *

They found Judith by herself that evening. Evan Handley was in town for a regular engagement he had with friends, so Judith was especially pleased to see them. Elsie had awkwardly taken Angelique's cloak, hat and gloves. She still made a poor substitute for the dearly departed Beth, but Judith was in no state of mind to entertain engaging new help. They would make do with Elsie for now.

Judith asked them to join her for dinner—an invitation, which they gladly accepted. Throughout dinner, Barnabas watched and listened as Angelique spun tales of her youth in Martinique, and even of meeting Barnabas for the first time. She stayed somewhat close to the truth, though leaving out the fact that she was a servant, and re-envisioning herself as the heroine of the story—in point of fact, as Josette. Barnabas felt wistful and sad listening to her retelling of their first encounters. He felt pangs of guilt as Angelique described a dashing, romantic man who inspired in her a love that lasted to that day.

Judith listened entranced, from time to time asking questions, but mostly listening. "It sounds like quite the romance," Judith said at last.

"Yes," Angelique said. She smiled and bestowed an adoring look on Barnabas. "We were young then. And now, with the benefit of age and experience, we are ready at last to join our lives, to be husband and wife."

Listening to her, watching her charm Judith so completely, Barnabas nearly forgot that it was Angelique who spoke. Then the turn of her head, and an unintended gleam in her eyes reminded him that she was, in fact, the same vengeful sorceress whose anger and spite led to the destruction and ruin of so many. He hung his head for a moment. Was his desperation for companionship leading him to see aspects of her that were not really there? Or was it possible that she had changed? Was it possible that absent their past mistakes and the pain inflicted by each, there was hope for them? Hope that there could be companionship, _friendship_ even, between two old foes? He looked up and caught her eye. She gave him a quizzical look. He nodded his acknowledgement and looked away.

* * *

After dinner, the three adjourned to the drawing room. Judith asked Barnabas to pour them each a brandy. Once they were settled, and had finished their nightcap, Barnabas said, "We should very much like to pay our respects to Quentin before we leave."

"I've not seen him since this morning, Barnabas—though that's hardly unusual since Rachel died," Judith said sadly.

Barnabas rose and took Angelique's glass and his own and returned them to the top of the liquor cabinet. At that moment, there was a knock at the door.

"Barnabas, would you mind?" Judith asked.

"Of course not," Barnabas responded politely and turned to answer the door. When he returned Evan Handley was with him.

Judith's spirits brightened, "Evan! I didn't expect to see you this evening."

"I left immediately after dinner in hope of spending some part of the evening with you," Evan said with a slight bow to the ladies. "But I see you already have guests."

"Your timing couldn't be better, Mr. Handley. Miss Bouchard and I are going to pay our respects to Quentin, and then retire for the evening," Barnabas said with sufficient formality to mask their more recent, deep acquaintanceship.

"Although I doubt Quentin will open the door to anyone this evening, if he does he certainly won't be fit to be seen by Angelique," Judith said with a deep sigh.

Angelique emitted a light sparkling, chuckle, "My dear Judith, the one thing that the tales of my youth in Martinique should have taught you is that I am not a delicate flower. Whatever state we find your brother in this evening, I'm sure I've witnessed worse on the streets of Fort-de-France."

"Very well," Judith returned. "Barnabas knows the way." As they saw themselves out of the drawing room, closing the doors behind them, Judith was already turning her full attention to Evan Handley.

* * *

Barnabas and Angelique stood outside of Quentin's west wing apartment. Barnabas had knocked repeatedly—politely at first then more insistently. He turned to Angelique, "He may be asleep."

"If he acts in keeping with his reputation, he's more likely inebriated," Angelique huffed in response. "Shall we leave?" she asked impatiently.

"No. I told him I'd return this evening. He's expecting me."

"Clearly not," she said. Barnabas resumed knocking and calling his cousin's name. "Really, Barnabas, he clearly does not wish to be disturbed." She turned and took a step toward the stairway. She looked back over her shoulder. Barnabas was gone. Her eyes rolled upward, and she sighed loudly. She immediately knew where Barnabas had gone.

* * *

When Barnabas materialized in Quentin's sitting room in an alcove near the window, he found his cousin sitting at the table. "Quentin?" No answer. " _Quentin_?" he said again moving across the room—approaching his cousin. As he came abreast of him, he saw it—he saw everything clearly now. Quentin sat at the table—his hands rested on the table, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his eyes were closed, and he had a look of concentration on his face. In front of him on the table were the I Ching wands. They formed a hexagram well known to Barnabas—the 49th hexagram—the hexagram of change—of transformation. Quentin was deep in an I Ching trance.

Barnabas went to the door. It was locked, but the key was still in the keyhole. He unlocked the door, opened it, and was met by Angelique's angry eyes. He knew she was about to get even more angry, but there was nothing to be done. He opened the door more widely, and gestured her in. Entering the room from the hallway, the scene was plain to Angelique at once.

"You gave him the wands?" she hissed in an accusatory tone.

"He was so despondent. I wanted to give him hope," Barnabas explained. "I left them, but I told him to wait for my return. It was why I was so anxious to see him this evening."

"Really, Barnabas," Angelique chided him. "You gave a starving man a meal and then told him to wait until you return at sundown to eat it. You fool! What did you think would happen?"

"I …" he began, but there were no words sufficient to convey his regret.

"You know Barnabas, your impulsivity must be maddening to a woman like Julia Hoffman." Angelique berated him as she paced the room.

"What are we to do now?" Barnabas asked.

" _We_?" Angelique was furious. "Did you include me in your misguided decision to leave the wands with him? You know their power and yet you handled them so cavalierly, so _carelessly_."

"I admit it—I was wrong. I gave him the wands and then dawn interrupted …" he began by way of an excuse.

"How little you know or understand such things, Barnabas. The wands have no master and no mistress. Without a guide to anchor him to his purpose, the wands will lead Quentin where _they_ believe he needs to go, to do what _they_ believe he needs to accomplish."

"We must bring him out of the trance."

"No, Barnabas! He entered the trance unguided and with no one to anchor him," she said. "We have no idea where it has led him. It is unwise—dangerous even—to break the trance."

"But you are my guide in 1968, and yet you are here," he said with an implied question in his voice.

"Yes. I am here because you summoned me and I could not refuse your summons, but when our work here is done, I will return to 1968 and bring you out of the trance. In the meantime, Julia Hoffman will see to it that your physical being is secure. She came to check on your wellbeing everyday when I was there with you, and she will continue to do so until I return."

"Julia," he said softly, thinking of his friend who constantly displayed more loyalty than he had earned. "Then we must do the same for Quentin. We must see to it that his physical being is undisturbed until he returns to it and comes out of the trance."

"And how exactly are we to accomplish that?" she asked bitingly as she paced across the room.

"I don't know." They were silent for a time, before he resumed, "There must be a potion or a spell that you could cast …"

She stopped pacing. It was the first sensible thing he'd said or done with respect to this predicament. "There is a spell," she said thinking aloud. "It would suspend his physical being in this moment in time. He won't move. He won't age. He will be like an insect suspended in amber, but waiting for his astral presence to return to his body. Still, it is essential that his body not be disturbed until then."

"For how long?" he wondered aloud.

"For as long as it takes for him to find the answers he seeks or return from wherever the trance has taken him."

"If you perform the spell, I will see to it that he is protected," Barnabas said.

"How, Barnabas?" she asked.

"Leave that part to me. I will accomplish it. I promise. When will you attempt the spell?"

"There are a few things which I require, but mostly to gather my strength, so tomorrow evening when you wake I will be ready. How is he to remain undisturbed until then?" she asked sensibly.

"For that, I suggest we enlist the assistance of Mr. Handley."

* * *

While Barnabas was confined to his coffin during the day, Angelique prepared for the spell she would cast that evening. A stop at Evan Handley's home had yielded the four black tapers she would need for the spell. Evan had also proved useful in helping ensure that Quentin was undisturbed throughout the day.

The evening before they had locked Quentin in his apartment. Angelique had taken the key. She knew of the hidden passage that led from the west wing to the servants' quarters of the house. Throughout the day, she would carefully employ it to check on Quentin. Evan had kept Judith's attention elsewhere to the extent possible, encouraging her to leave Quentin to his own devices for the day.

All that remained was to await Barnabas's arrival after sunset. Technically, there was no need for him to be there when the spell was cast, but Angelique preferred to wait until moonrise anyway—to draw upon its inherent power. She would position the candles at four points around Quentin. Each would represent a different aspect of his life-force.

When Barnabas arrived that evening, he materialized in Quentin's apartment and found Angelique already there keeping watch over Quentin and preparing to cast the spell. She had already set the candles in place.

"Are you ready?" he asked simply.

"I am." Her eyes seemed to glow in the semi-darkness. The only illumination in the room was courtesy of the waning moon beyond the window.

Moving counter-clockwise, she lit each of the candles in turn. All at once Barnabas could see her clearly. Her dark green dress was a perfect counterpoint to her blond hair. She took a pitcher of water, immersed her hand in it, and began to move around Quentin, again counter-clockwise, sprinkling the water on the floor as she moved. When she was done, she had created a circle of fire and water with Quentin—still in a trance—in the center. She stopped directly facing Quentin, and began to incant, "Fire and water protect the spirit within. Fire and water provide shelter to the life-force within." She raised her arms, and the moon seemed to encircle her in thin, milky light. "Fire and water shelter the soul within. Fire and water protect the spirit within." Now it was Angelique who seemed to be in a trance-like state. Her eyes closed and her arms extended, she repeated the incantation again and again.

Just as Barnabas began to lose hope of success, the flames leapt to life—consuming the candles and leaving only small molten puddles of black wax. The water too had dried in unison with the candles—leaving no sign or indication it had been there. Angelique's arms dropped to her sides. She staggered forward a few steps before collapsing into Barnabas's arms. "It is done," she whispered.

Once the spell was cast, Barnabas's plan was to tell Judith that Quentin had left Collinwood, and it would be best to close the west wing for good. But his plan, like the decision to leave the wands in Quentin's possession in the first place, was ill conceived.

* * *

Throughout the day, Evan employed a variety of strategies to turn Judith's attention away from her brother. He arrived not long after her usual breakfast hour to discuss business matters. He brought with him several routine papers for her signature. He had slowly and painstakingly explained each one, though they were in fact pro-forma. She had listened with as much discipline as she could muster. She was, at this point, relatively patient. She hardly expected to see Quentin before noon.

As the lunch hour drew near, Evan as much as invited himself to lunch. He began by lamenting the need to return home. Then he complained of having so many meals on his own. Judith felt obliged to invite him to join her or risk being considered ungracious. So Evan joined her in the small family dining room. As always, he spoke in glowing terms of the meal and her hospitality, and generally tried to keep the conversation from anything to do with Quentin. He took his time and appeared to savor the meal. He asked for coffee afterward, which required O'Neill to make some. The midday stretched from its usual hour to more than two.

Judith had then checked on Jamison and Nora. Finding them well looked after by Mrs. Dunn, she returned to the study and found Evan still there waiting for her.

Evan invited Judith to take an afternoon walk with him. Judith demurred, telling him that she needed to complete some personal correspondence. He told her he would wait—that he was completely at liberty that afternoon and completely at her disposal. So while she drafted her personal letters in the study, Evan sat nearby reading the Collinsport Star from cover to cover—something he never did. Judith found herself conflicted—appreciating Evan's attention, but also mindful that she had not yet checked on Quentin.

She had agreed to take a short walk around the estate with him. They had walked up the drive then turned toward the bluffs. They followed the bluffs then cut through a finger of the woods that led toward town. Once on the other side of the woods, the Collinsport road was in sight.

"Evan, we've gone much farther than intended," Judith said at last as they approached the road. They had walked sometimes in silence, sometimes chatting about subjects both frivolous and serious. She felt remarkably easy in his company and indulging in a walk around the estate was something she'd never think to do of her own accord. She'd enjoyed the walk, but now she found herself tiring and the Great House was still some distance away.

"I am sorry, Judith. I was enjoying the walk and your company so much that I lost track of how far we'd come," he told her disingenuously. "But my home is not far from here. Why don't we go there and I can take you home in my carriage."

Judith readily agreed to this, only to find that Evan wanted her to come inside and join him for late afternoon tea before returning to the Great House. "It's been too long since you last visited me here," he told her.

"Indeed. It has been awhile," she said, as he helped her out of her short cloak and escorted her to the small parlor. The room was cozy and comfortable, yet masculine, as one would expect from a confirmed bachelor. The fire was lit and she waited beside it while he went to speak with his housekeeper. Before long, her housekeeper brought a pot of tea and sandwiches. She appeared somewhat sheepish about serving the lady from the Great House, but Evan quick dismissed her and served Judith himself. Though his acts of deception pricked his conscience, Evan had genuinely enjoyed his day spent distracting Judith.

Darkness had set in by the time they finished their tea and Evan readied his carriage to drive Judith back to Collinwood. He took the drive slowly and carefully, but before long they arrived back at the Great House.

Unbeknownst to Evan, Judith's conversation with Quentin the previous day had instilled in her a certainty that she would see him that day. Quentin had seemed hopeful, optimistic even. Seeing that, she felt certain that he was turning the page on his grief. So as afternoon gave way to evening, she had grown impatient to see her brother and immediately upon their return had headed directly to the west wing to see her brother. Evan followed in her wake, but could do nothing to stop her.

* * *

Barnabas stood holding the exhausted Angelique in his arms when he heard the lock to Quentin's room click open. The door opened and Judith walked in. Evan Handley followed her a step behind.

"What is the meaning of this?" Judith asked as she took in the scene. She was momentarily frozen with shock. "Quentin!" She took a step in his direction, only to be restrained from behind by Evan.

"Judith, you mustn't?" he said forcefully.

"What is going on here? What's wrong with him?" she cried.

"He is in a trance," Barnabas answered. "He must not be disturbed."

"A _trance_?" she asked, still not comprehending what was happening.

"Yes—the wands on the table before him form a portal. He entered the portal by way of a trance," Barnabas explained.

"A portal to what or where?" Judith asked tearfully.

"To hope," Barnabas said. "I wanted to give him hope." Angelique stirred in his arms, beginning to recover her strength.

" _You_ wanted to give him hope? What gave you the right to do …" she waved her hand, "whatever this is? You had no right, Barnabas. I am his sister—did you ever think to consult me?"

"We must not disturb him or break the trance," Barnabas responded weakly in the face of her growing fury.

"Why not?" Judith asked angrily.

It was Evan who answered. He still held her from behind by the shoulders. He said softly into her ear, "We don't know what will happen if we break the trance, because we don't know for certain where he is and what he's experiencing in the trance-state. We could hurt him; we could _kill_ him."

Judith shook his hands off and turned to face him. He'd never seen her so angry. "You knew!" she said accusingly. "You conspired with them … to do this!"

"No," he began.

Judith cut him off. "I have always known, Evan, that you and Quentin fancied yourselves practitioners of the dark arts, but I always thought it was just silly nonsense. I defended you—both of you and this is how I am to be repaid for my loyalty."

Barnabas spoke, "Do not blame Mr. Handley."

"You may as well call him Evan as it's clear you two are far better acquainted than you led me to believe," she sniped.

"You mustn't blame Evan," Barnabas began.

Now Angelique gathered herself, still supported on Barnabas's arm. She said, "Mr. Handley and Quentin did engage in silly nonsense, but I do not. I have powers beyond anything that Evan and Quentin thought real or possible. I am more than a practitioner of the dark arts; I am a manifestation of them. I am able to move through time without the aid of these devices," she gestured toward to I Ching wands. "I was brought here to help your brother—and I have done so. All that remains is for you to help protect him—to ensure that his physical body is protected, and the trance is not broken." She spoke calmly and authoritatively. And Judith responded in kind.

"How long is he to be protected?" Judith asked.

"Until his astral doppelganger—the part of him that exists in the trance-state—returns to his physical body," Angelique explained with a sweep of her hand toward Quentin.

Judith sighed, her anger giving way to resignation. "And how long will that be?"

"We have no way of knowing. It could be a matter of days or it could be weeks or longer," Angelique answered. She went on, "I have cast a spell that will suspend his body in time. It will ensure that his physical body is waiting just as it is now, when his astral being returns, no matter how long it takes."

"And how am I to protect him until then?" Judith asked plaintively.

"As to that," Barnabas said, "you must leave it to me."

Judith made a derisive noise, but listened to Barnabas's plan.

* * *

Collinwood 1968

When the clock in the foyer chimed the hour, Maggie realized how much later it was than she expected. She had taken Amy and David to the library in Collinsport that afternoon and each of them, including Maggie, had returned with an armful of books to sustain them until their next visit. At 9:30, she had tucked each of the children into bed with the admonition that they were to read no more than another half hour and then turn out the light and go to sleep.

Then she headed to the drawing room with one of her library books. Finding neither Mrs. Stoddard nor Carolyn about, she curled up in the armchair next to the fire to read. When the clock struck 11:00, she thought, _I should go up to bed now, but I suppose I could read just one more chapter_ …

The book had turned out to be quite the page-turner. The half-hour chime had just sounded and the fire had burned down to embers. She was beginning to feel the chill. Just then she heard the door of the Great House open. Footsteps crossed the foyer. She turned to see Julia Hoffman.

"Good evening, Julia," she called softly.

"Good evening, Maggie. What are you doing up so late?" Julia asked as she joined Maggie in drawing room.

"I could ask you the same thing," Maggie responded lightly. "We always seem to meet at the oddest times." Maggie showed her the book she'd been reading. "I just can't put it down," she said.

"That's a strong recommendation," Julia replied smiling.

"Your turn," Maggie said. Feeling feisty, she laughed, "And none of that psychiatrist deflection. Seriously," she continued, "I don't think I've seen you once since you were called to consult at Windcliff. Have you been staying there?"

"No. It's a difficult case, so I've been going there daily. I've been up and out early, and returning quite late at night."

"Why don't you take a room there temporarily?" Maggie asked.

"I prefer to come back to Collinwood. As a consulting psychiatrist, I know I shouldn't say this, but I find Windcliff unsettling at night."

Maggie laughed, "Why _Dr_. Hoffman, you do surprise me."

"Yes," Julia responded as she set her purse and medical bag on the couch. She went to the liquor cabinet. "Care to join me in a brandy?" she asked.

Maggie didn't hesitate. "Why not? But please make mine a sherry."

Julia poured the drinks and then joined Maggie by the fading fire, sitting on the couch across from the younger woman. She began, "I'm glad I ran into you this evening, Maggie. I have a favor to ask."

"Of course. You've always been so helpful to me, if there's something I can do to help you, just name it."

"It's about this case I've been consulting on at Windcliff," Julia told her.

Maggie was instantly guarded, but tried to mask it by saying, "I don't see how I can help with something like that, but please go on."

"This patient is suffering from amnesia, Maggie—similar to what you experienced," Julia said.

"I am sorry, but I still don't see how I can help."

A look of consternation crossed Julia's face. At first, Maggie thought it was directed at her, but Julia continued, "I've tried traditional methods but to no avail. This young man is very stubborn. I want to try to put him under hypnosis, as I did for you. But he refuses."

"And you can't force him," Maggie said.

"No, and I wouldn't want to anyway. There's too much coercion in psychiatry as it is and the best results are obtained when patients participate in their treatment."

"So, how can I help?" Maggie asked.

"I'm hoping you'll speak to him, Maggie. Tell him about your experience." Julia added flatly, "I'm hoping you can convince him to change his mind. I can't help him if I don't have all of my tools at my disposal."

Maggie chewed her lower lip while she considered. "I want to help you, Julia. I really do, but …" She fell silent.

"But what, Maggie?"

Maggie responded in a soft, reticent voice, "But I never want to go back to Windcliff. I can't face it, Julia," she added in a distressed voice.

"It's okay, Maggie. He's not at Windcliff anymore. As I said, he's a stubborn young man. He hasn't broken any laws and he didn't want to stay at Windcliff, and neither do I. So Dr. Fisher released him under my supervision."

Maggie's eyes widened. "So he's here?"

Julia smiled, "I would never impose on Elizabeth like that. He's staying in Collinsport. Ed, at the Blue Whale, is letting him stay there. He's going to help out around the bar. Ed's letting him stay in the storage room for free," Julia said with a wry expression on her face.

" _Ed_ —at the Blue Whale—is letting a _total stranger_ stay in his storage room." Maggie was incredulous. She went on in the same vein, "Ed, who thinks anyone who is not from Collinsport is automatically suspect and up to no good? That Ed? How did you manage that?"

"Hypnosis." Julia and Maggie shared a laugh then Julia added seriously, "I called in a favor. You'd be surprised how many people in a small town like Collinsport would never dream of visiting a psychiatrist to discuss their problems, but if you run into them on the street, they're all too willing to tell you their problems, ask your advice, or more."

Now Maggie grew serious too. She too owed Julia, and more than that, she considered her a friend. "What do you know about him?"

"Very little, I'm afraid," Julia admitted. "Dr. Fisher thinks he may be European or may have been living abroad. And he seems to come from money, so to speak."

"And what makes Dr. Fisher believe that?" Maggie's curiosity was peaked.

"His clothes mostly. They were expensive and tailored—not off-the-rack, but strangely, he was barefooted. Initially, Sheriff Patterson thought he might be one of those young people traveling around and camping out wherever they like, but his clothes seem to run counter to that."

"So, his origins are a mystery," Maggie concluded.

"Yes," Julia drawled in response.

"If you think I can help …" she began tentatively. "What's his name?"

"We've been calling him John, because he's a John Doe at this point."

"Well, if you think I can help your John Doe, I'm happy to try," Maggie said.

"Thank you, Maggie."


	23. Chapter 23

The great estate of Collinwood, home to two fine houses, numerous cottages, a rectory and a cemetery, is also home to grounds as varied as its buildings. From the bluffs overlooking the treacherous sea below, to its untamed woods, to its adjoining farmland, the grounds of the estate as much as any of its buildings, have protected the Collins family secrets and witnessed many mysteries.

* * *

John's first memory was of emerging from cool darkness into the light of day. He had pushed two heavy wooden doors open, and climbed out. There was no one around, so he made straight for the dilapidated buildings nearby. Still, he found no one. The buildings were clearly abandoned. Leaving them behind, he headed to the gate. It groaned heartily as he pulled it open.

The woods lay ahead. He heard faint noises in the distance—perhaps from beyond the woods. So he moved toward them, walking in his bare feet through the woods. The stones, bramble, and rough protrusions of roots hurt so intensely that he was acutely aware that he wore no shoes. But why he was there and where he was going, he couldn't say.

When he emerged from the woods into a clearing there was a wide, paved lane ahead. He stood for a long time just looking at it. A vehicle moved up the lane so fast it created a breeze. Then another moved past him in the opposite direction—it was red—a red blur passing so quickly only its color could be comprehended. Then another appeared, but this time it moved past more slowly, and a face from within searched his then moved on.

He stood transfixed—unsure what to do next. Soon it no longer mattered. The choice was taken from him when one of these vehicles stopped. A young man with hard eyes emerged from within. "Get in the car. You're coming with me." The man took John by the arm, led him to the vehicle, opened the door, and ushered him inside. The man got in through a different door. Inscrutably, he muttered under his breath, "Goddamn hippies." The words meant nothing, but the sentiment behind them was clear.

As the vehicle moved down the lane, John could feel a cool, refreshing breeze on his face, courtesy of an open window. Before too long the vehicle stopped. The young man got out and opened the door. "Get out. We're here. Don't give me any trouble, unless you want to be cuffed," the man said roughly. Taking him by the arm, he led John inside a building.

Once inside, there was an older, stern-looking man behind a desk. Beyond him there were side-by-side metal-gated cells.

"Spread um," the younger man said, again in a harsh tone. When John didn't respond, the man roughly pushed him to a wall, took his hands and pressed them against it above his head, and pushed his feet apart. Then he patted John's chest, back, and legs.

"What have we here?" the older man asked.

"I found him up near the woods off of the Collinsport Road," the younger man responded.

To John, the older man said, "Have a seat, son."

When John hesitated and looked at him through blank eyes, the younger man pushed him hard into a chair beside the desk.

"Take it easy," the older man said to the younger one. Then to John, he said, "I'm Sheriff Patterson. What's your name, son?"

John's eyebrows drew together. His hands reached for his head. "I … I don't know," he said. Strain showed on his face, "I can't remember."

Sheriff Patterson turned to his deputy. "Where's his wallet?"

"He wasn't carrying one. No keys or money either," the deputy replied.

"That's odd," the sheriff said.

"Goddamn hippies," the deputy muttered.

"That's enough of that," Sheriff Patterson said. Then to John, "Take your time, son. It's okay. You're not in any trouble. But the woods are on private property and no one is allowed to camp or sleep there."

Worry etched John's face. "I can't remember _anything_ ," he said in a panicky voice. "How did I get here?" he asked in a shrill voice. Then more softly, "I can't remember … I can't remember my name."

"Alright, son. Alright—we'll figure this out. Jim put him in a cell for now," Sheriff Patterson told his deputy. Then he added, "And take it easy. He might be on something. We'll let him sleep it off. Maybe by morning, he'll remember his name. In the meantime, I want you to go back to the place where you first saw him. There's a good chance some of his friends are still there. Maybe they'll know who he is and what he's on." Watching his deputy push John into the cell, he added, "Go easy, please. We want their help."

* * *

Later when the deputy returned, Sheriff Patterson was at his desk and John was stretched out on the narrow, thin mattress in the cell staring at the ceiling.

"Well?" the sheriff asked?

"No one there, and no sign that anyone's been there," the deputy said.

"Well Jim, what we have here is a full-fledged mystery."

"What if he doesn't remember who he is?" the deputy asked. "We going to transfer him to Bangor?"

"I've been thinking about that," the sheriff said thoughtfully. "I'm not sure jail is the right place for him. I think we should transfer him to Windcliff."

"Sheriff, what if he's faking?"

"If he is, he's damn good at it. But if he is, the doctors at Windcliff will know. He won't be able to fool them for long."

* * *

The next day, the sheriff had personally accompanied John to Windcliff. John sat in the second seat of the sheriff's vehicle. His eyes examined the world beyond the window. For his part, Sheriff Patterson proved to be a chatty, friendly companion. As they wound their way up the coastal road, the sheriff pointed out various landmarks and natural features.

"Any of this seem familiar to you?" the sheriff asked John from time to time, glancing in the rearview mirror at his passenger in the back seat. When John became upset that he couldn't remember, the sheriff said, "That's okay, son. Take it easy. The doctors at Windcliff are going to help you. If anyone can help you, they can."

They drove in silence for a time before the sheriff said, "That's it up there," indicating a building off to their left. John moved to that side of the seat and peered out the window at it. Before long, the sheriff turned left onto a road the led up the hill to the Windcliff Sanitarium.

They were met in the lobby by a nurse in a crisp white uniform that John noted ended just below her knees. He wasn't sure why, but he found it disconcerting. He waited, taking in the room with his eyes, while the sheriff signed the papers to complete the hand-off to Windcliff.

Preparing to take his leave, the sheriff turned to John and said, "Don't worry, son. They'll take good care of you here."

The sheriff held out his hand. John took it and shook it, saying, "Thank you, Sheriff Patterson," in a voice that sounded familiar, as though his real identify was woven into his cadence and intonation.

In terms of the accommodations, Windcliff was a world away from the jail cell in which John had spent the previous night. The nurse showed him to a second-floor room that was small, but comfortable.

"Dr. Fisher will join you shortly," she told him. "In the meantime," she said, opening a door that led to a small bathroom, "there are toiletries available, if you'd like to freshen up." Then she was gone, closing and locking the door.

John went immediately to the window and looked out. Through the window, he could see the sanitarium's sweeping grounds, leading down to a tall hedgerow. The glass had wire mesh embedded in it and the windows too were locked. Turning back to the bathroom, he availed himself of the plentiful soap and water, hairbrush, and toothbrush—though there was no teeth-cleaning powder. There was no razor available. He looked at himself in a small mirror on the wall. His features were distorted because the mirror was made of something other than glass—no doubt so that it could not be easily broken. Windcliff, it seemed, was an insane asylum—a nice one, with nice rooms and friendly nurses, but an insane asylum nonetheless. Whoever he was, John knew he was not insane.

Dr. Fisher arrived shortly as the nurse had indicated. The doctor extended his hand. "I'm Dr. Fisher. We've been calling you, John—short for John Doe," he said.

"I don't feel like my name is John, but I suppose you have to call me something."

"Well, we're going to do our best to find out your name and who you are," Dr. Fisher said. Then he handed John the paper sack he'd been holding. "I brought you a clean set of clothing, and a pair of shoes. We had to guess about the sizes, but we'll see how these fit and one of the orderlies will go into Bangor tomorrow and get something that will fit."

"Thank you," John replied, taking the proffered sack.

"Oh," Dr. Fisher reached in the pocket of his lab coat and drew out a razor. "I thought you might like to shave. I have to supervise you, but …" He looked at John's unusual facial hair. "Those sideburns may be popular where you come from, but they'll stand out around here." Dr. Fisher smiled in hope of communicating that it was a friendly suggestion. One never knew how patients would react to even the most, well intended suggestion.

John took the razor and examined it with a perplexed expression. He took it into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, running his hand across his face. "I …" he began, unsure how, and ashamed to say that he didn't know what to do with it.

Dr. Fisher joined him and guessed the truth of the situation. John, he noted, sounded American, but perhaps he was from abroad. Or perhaps, more likely, his amnesia extended beyond memory of events. "Let me show you," Dr. Fisher offered. Taking the shaving cream from among the toiletries, Dr. Fisher showed John how to apply it and how to use the small, compact razor. John was a quick study, and soon took over. When he was done, John thanked the doctor. Dr. Fisher said, "I have to take it with me, but the orderly can help you shave in the morning, if you like."

The balance of the day was spent in a battery of physical examinations and tests. John found that he was the object of a great deal of curiosity. More than that, he found himself curious about the many unusual, unknown things around him. The next day the fog would begin to dissipate.

* * *

Collinwood 1897

Judith stood looking at her brother's impassive face. He had not moved. He showed no sign that he was aware of anything that transpired around him. She had heard every word of Barnabas's plan though her eyes never left her brother's face. At last when her cousin was finished laying out his thoughts about how best to protect her brother's body, she asked the many questions that troubled her.

Barnabas's plan called for Judith to treat the Collinwood staff to special day away from the estate. A day in Bangor or Augusta would do the trick. While the staff was away, Sandor would construct a false wall to screen Quentin from view. Placing some unused furniture and trunks in front of the wall would disguise the room as storage.

When Judith and the staff returned from their day in town, she would simply tell them that Quentin had left Collinwood, leaving her a note to that effect. Given his past behavior and his recent bereavement, no one would doubt or question that he was capable of leaving without a word to anyone. She would then tell them that the west wing was to be permanently closed and locked.

Judith was reticent about trusting Sandor, but Barnabas had assured her that not only could he be trusted, he and Angelique would be there to ensure that the work was done quickly and efficiently.

Next Judith worried about Quentin emerging from the trance to find himself trapped behind the hastily constructed wall. Barnabas too had thought of this. As with many of the hidden passages and rooms in the Great House, the wall would include a latch that would allow Quentin to open the panel into the outer room. They could leave him instructions to that effect someplace where he would be sure to see it—perhaps on the mantle.

"You seem to have thought of everything," Judith said bitterly.

"I tried," Barnabas responded with a hint of pride.

"Unlike when you sent him into this trance in the first place," Judith said, her anger returning. "One final requirement," she said. "I must be able to access his room once the wall is constructed."

"Judith," Barnabas began. But Judith would brook no opposition on this point.

"I want to be able to see my brother when I please," she said with finality.

"Very well. We will arrange it accordingly," Barnabas said. "So, we are in agreement as to how to proceed."

By now, the four of them—Judith, Barnabas, Angelique, and Evan—had adjourned to the drawing room. Judith sat in her usual seat by the fire, Barnabas in the armchair across from her, Angelique sat beside her on the davenport, and Evan stood with his back to the fireplace.

"When?" Judith asked without unnecessary explanation.

"It must be soon." Barnabas went on, "Tomorrow or the day after."

"The day after tomorrow then," Judith said.

Though it was nearly time for the evening meal, she was in no mood for company. She rose. "You know the way out, I believe."

"Of course." Barnabas rose, offered Angelique his arm, and together they left the Great House.

Now Judith turned to Evan. "You too," she said coolly.

"Judith …" Evan began.

"Not now, Evan," Judith cut him off. "While I know that Barnabas was the lead actor in this farce, you and Angelique helped him and kept me in the dark. I barely know her and she owes me nothing. But you, Evan, I trusted you, counted on you … I thought …" She looked away.

"Judith, you can still trust me and count on me. Please believe me," he pleaded.

"I lost my brother tonight, Evan. I may never get him back. I want to forgive you, and I believe that in time I will, but right now I find your duplicity insupportable and your presence unbearable. Please show yourself out."

With that, she mustered as much pride of bearing that she could and walked up the stairs then to the west wing. Once there, she returned to Quentin's apartment. She stood watching him for so long that minutes stretched to more than an hour. And when her strength would no longer support her, she silently bade him goodnight, closed and locked the door, and made her way to the family dining room to have a solitary evening meal.

* * *

Windcliff Sanitarium 1968

When Julia Hoffman arrived at Windcliff, she found Dr. Fisher waiting for her. He'd delayed his morning rounds for thirty minutes waiting for her arrival. When she arrived, both were anxious to get started. Together they visited patients one-by-one. After each visit, Dr. Fisher would ask Julia's professional opinion, which he valued greatly. In only one instance did Julia have little to offer.

They arrived at Willie Loomis's room. Julia felt overwhelmingly guilt each time she saw the young man, because she knew that he was wrongly believed to have kidnapped Maggie Evans. She knew that Willie had spent months and would likely spend many more institutionalized as a result. Until he could accept his own guilt in the matter, doctors told him, he would never be cured of his delusions—delusions that included vampirism and brainwashing. Julia felt ashamed of her part in it, but her loyalty to Barnabas overrode her professional judgment, and now it was too late to undo the young man's predicament.

Willie's eyes lit up when Julia accompanied Dr. Fisher into the room. "Dr. Hoffman," he enthused. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you too, Willie. How are you?"

"I'm doing good, Dr. Hoffman—real good." Then he asked he softly, "Did you come to tell them I didn't do it?"

"No, Willie. I came to see another patient, but I wanted to say hello to you while I'm here," she answered.

The young man worried his hands together and asked, "And Barnabas, how's he?"

"He's away from Collinwood at the moment," she answered, sensing unease in Dr. Fisher beside her.

Willie started to panic. "And Maggie? What about Maggie? Is she safe?"

"Calm down, Willie. Maggie is fine," Julia told him in a professionally dispassionate voice.

Dr. Fisher intervened. "Alright, Willie. Calm down. I'll send the nurse with something to help you settle down."

"I don't need nothing, Dr. Fisher," they could hear him say as they exited Willie's room.

"I'm sorry, Geoffrey," Julia began.

Dr. Fisher waved it off, "Don't worry about it, Julia. It's the same every time Maggie Evans's name comes up. We're still working with him though. I think we're making progress." Then he added, "We'd make more progress if you'd come back full time, Julia."

"No thanks, Geoff. But I'm happy to consult on John Doe's case for as long as you need me. I'd like to meet him now, if I may."

* * *

Collinwood—three days later …

It was the perfect day. The sun was not only bright, it was warm—warm enough for Maggie to make her way to the beach below the bluffs. Seabirds were keening—dozens of them. They were swooping down over and over again into the surf. Maggie ran out into the surf and felt it lapping at her ankles and calves. She was happy that the weather at last permitted her to don her cornflower blue sundress. The sun kissed her shoulders, nose, and cheeks. It was the perfect day.

Maggie woke when the early morning light found its way to her room. She turned onto her back and stretched herself awake. She'd enjoyed another good night's sleep. Even her dreams cooperated.

Maggie pulled on her peignoir and headed to the window. The perfect day for frolicking on the beach was limited to her dreams. In reality, the skies were gray, but not threatening—in other words, a typical Collinwood day.

And it would have been a typical day had Maggie not agreed to speak to Julia's John Doe, as she thought of him, later that afternoon. She knew that Julia wouldn't have asked her to do it, if she didn't believe Maggie could handle it. So in a way, it was a vote of confidence, an indication that Julia believed in Maggie. Still it might mean telling a total stranger about something deeply personal and she would be opening the door again to emotions she worked hard to understand and suppress.

So now, she was going through the motions of morning math lessons, followed by a walk around the grounds, followed by spelling and grammar, and then finally lunch. The kids seemed to mirror her nervous energy. So after lunch, Maggie took David and Amy outside to burn off some energy. All the while, a part of brain was figuring out what to say and how much to say.

The kids played some sort of tag that looked like it would be fun with a few more kids, but not for two. Then Maggie planned silent reading for the afternoon, after which Carolyn had agreed to take over while Maggie went into Collinsport. She'd told Carolyn that it was important that she go that afternoon, but not the purpose of her visit.

When Carolyn arrived in the library to relieve her, Maggie asked, "Are you sure you don't mind, Carolyn?"

"I think I can handle these two, Maggie. Just go," Carolyn told her decisively.

As Maggie opened the door to leave, she could hear Carolyn ask in a sunny voice, "So, what are you guys reading?"

Maggie quietly closed the door behind her, grabbed her sweater and purse, and headed into Collinsport.

* * *

A little while later, Maggie entered the Blue Whale and found no one there, but that was not unexpected. It was late afternoon, but well before workers wandered in for a drink before heading home after work.

"Hello," she called out. A moment later the door to the storage room opened, and a man came in carrying a case of bottled beer.

He took her in with his eyes. The young woman before him had dark eyes behind long lashes. A cascade of long dark hair fell around her shoulders. Shapely legs peeked out from beneath a shockingly short skirt.

Maggie gasped aloud. "It's you!" Her face went ashen.

"Do you know me?" He dropped the box heavily on the counter, causing the bottles to rattle within. He advanced on her from behind the counter. He took her roughly by her arms. "Have we met before?" his demanding voice rang in her ears.

"Hey, who do you think you are—grabbing me like that? Let go!" She threw off his hands and stepped back.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to … but you seem to recognize me. Do you? Do you know me?"

Maggie struggled to regain her composure. What could she say? That she saw him in her dreams—but she had. He was the same man she'd seen in her dreams and in the woods and in her trance—he was! "You must be Julia's John Doe," she finally managed to say.

"Julia?"

"I mean, Dr. Hoffman. She asked me to come see you," Maggie answered in a voice that sounded strange to her ears.

"Why?" His voice was gruff and demanding.

Maggie forced herself to remember that he must be frightened—alone in a strange place, surrounded by strangers. She knew how he must feel. She willed her voice to convey her empathy. "She told me that you're suffering from amnesia. She wants to try hypnotherapy—I mean to put you under hypnosis, but you won't agree to let her try." She met his eyes with hers. They were the same eyes as the man in her dreams, though they wore a different expression.

"What of it? What's it to do with you?" he asked brusquely.

"I know what you're going through," she began. Then she went on in a halting voice, "I suffered from amnesia myself not long ago, and Julia—Dr. Hoffman—used hypnotherapy to help me."

"And you got your memory back?" he asked.

"Well, not exactly …" Maggie began.

"It didn't work for you, but you think I should try it," he interrupted her, with a bitter edge in his voice and a sardonic, half smile on his lips.

"My case was … complicated."

He cut her off again, "Thanks for the advice, Miss … Miss? I don't even know your name."

"Evans. Maggie Evans."

"Thanks for the advice, Miss Maggie Evans," he began in a sneering tone. Then, his tone shifted. "There it is again," he told her.

"What?" Her eyebrows rose to punctuate her question.

"That look. You recognize me. You know me, don't you?" he demanded.

"Not exactly," she said.

"Well, what then?" he looked at her, wearing his impatience on his sleeve. "Tell me!" He moved toward her again.

"Fine—sit down," she returned in kind. They sat at one of the tables. Then she softened, "You're going to think I'm nuts. Anyway, I do recognize you in a way." She colored in anticipation of her next admission, "I saw you, or a man who looks very much like you, in a dream. And then later, I thought I saw you again, at the edge of the woods—only I wasn't sure if you were real or a hallucination. But it seems now that you are real."

"In the woods?" His face was a study in concentration, as he tried to make sense of his situation.

"Yes, near Collinwood."

"The estate?"

"Yes, the Collinwood Estate. It's the home of the Collins family—this town and half of everything else around here is named for them. If you've never heard of the Collins family, you really aren't from around here," she mused.

"That's just it, Miss Evans …"

"Maggie."

"Maggie. I think I am … from around here … yet no one seems to know me."

"All the more reason why you should let Dr. Hoffman help you. You're lucky to have her. She's an eminent psychiatrist. If anyone can help you, she can."

He stood and stalked to the bar, hands in the pockets of the odd and unfamiliar pants he'd been given at Windcliff. He turned to face her, leaning against the bar. Her face was open and expectant—lovely too. "You really believe Dr. Hoffman can help?" he asked from behind serious, penetrating eyes.

"I do," she told him sincerely.

"Well, why don't you come back this evening and convince me over a drink." His smile was disarming.

She felt the color rise in her cheeks. "I wonder whether that corny line would work where you come from," she said rising and heading to the door. She turned back to face him. "Dr. Hoffman could help you find out—where you come from, that is."

* * *

When Maggie returned to the Great House, she found Carolyn sitting alone in the drawing room reading a fashion magazine.

"Hi Carolyn," she began.

"Before you ask, they're in the kitchen baking cookies with Mrs. Johnson. And all three are having a great time—Mrs. Johnson loves having the company even if she pretends not to."

"Thanks Carolyn. Have you seen Julia? I really need to speak to her," Maggie said with more urgency than she'd intended.

Carolyn set her magazine aside and looked up at Maggie. "Is everything alright, Maggie?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine—it's nothing like that," Maggie told her, with a smile that felt forced given what was really on her mind.

"I'm glad. She got back from the Old House a little while ago and headed to the library. I think she's probably still there."

"Thanks Carolyn."

Maggie left her handbag on the table in the foyer and headed to the library in search of Julia. She found the door slightly ajar. She knocked and called out, "Julia, may I come in?"

"Of course, Maggie. I was hoping you'd stop by. How'd it go with John?"

"Julia," Maggie said in a breathy voice, "John … he's …" Maggie worried her hands together, pursed her lips and began again, "John is the man I saw in those dreams …"

"Calm down, Maggie. Have a seat—please."

Julia sat at the desk; a medical journal lay open in front of her. Maggie took a seat opposite her. "It's him, Julia. I'm sure of it."

"Well, that's good news, Maggie."

"I don't see how," Maggie told her.

"It means he's real and that you probably saw him somewhere before your dreams started. After all, you said you thought you saw him in the woods once, right?" the doctor asked.

"Well, yes, but that was _after_ the dreams started," Maggie told her in an agitated voice.

"But it's possible that you saw him before the dreams started and you just don't remember seeing him," Julia said.

"I think I would have remembered _him_ —especially once the dreams started," Maggie began, still not comprehending her friend's reasoning.

"Look—you may have seen him in the woods, maybe briefly, fleetingly, or even in your peripheral vision, and your subconscious registered his face. Then your subconscious brought his face to the surface when your dreams began. It's a kind of … loop of recognition … so to speak. Now you believe that you recognize him from your dreams, but in fact, you'd actually seen him before. Do you follow?"

"I don't know, Julia. What about seeing him in the west wing while under hypnosis?" Maggie persisted.

"I admit that it's hard to account for that, Maggie. It's hard to say why he left such a lasting impression on you—even subconsciously, but he is clearly not a figment of your imagination or a hallucination …"

The doctor allowed her voice to trail off leading Maggie to ask, "Do you think he's been living in the woods all this time?"

"I don't know," Julia drawled. "Only he knows for sure and everything he knows is locked away in his memory. Did you speak to him about trying hypnotherapy?"

"A little—but I did try."

"I'm sure you did, Maggie. With some patients, you just have to wait until they're ready. In the meantime, at least he agreed to stay in Collinsport where I can keep an eye on him. And who knows, maybe something will trigger his memory without hypnosis. Some patients recover on their own, in time; others never do," she concluded discouragingly, as Maggie knew all too well.

* * *

All in all it felt like it had been a long day. Perhaps it was because Maggie had done a variety of things, though none of them was particularly taxing. She had had dinner with Carolyn, the kids, and Mrs. Stoddard in the small family dining room. Julia had declined to join them, preferring to return to the Old House to attend to some vaguely defined matters. Maggie secretly believed that Julia still went to the Old House so frequently to feel close to Barnabas. She didn't understand the bond of friendship between the two but it was clearly deep and enduring.

After dinner, Mrs. Stoddard surprised the children by taking them into town for an ice cream, which left Maggie and Carolyn on their own for the evening—but not for long.

Maggie had retired to the drawing room with a book when she heard a knock at the door. Before she could even set her book aside, she heard Carolyn call out, "I'll get it."

A short time later, Carolyn opened the drawing room doors and ushered in Tony Peterson, her current boyfriend. Carolyn had changed out of her dress and into a pair of fitted slacks and a sweetheart sweater. It was clear that they were heading into town.

"Tony and I are going into town for a nightcap," Carolyn announced. "Why don't you join us, Maggie?"

"Hi Tony," Maggie said.

"Hi Maggie. How are things?" Tony asked.

"Things are fine. Thanks for asking," Maggie said in what felt by now like an oft-repeated exchange. Then to Carolyn, she added, "I'll have to take a rain-check on that drink. It's been a long day."

Tony took a step toward the drawing room doors before he heard Carolyn say, "Come on, Maggie. I had the kids all afternoon, so I know you're not tired."

"Really Carolyn," Tony began, but she talked over him.

"Come on, Maggie. I know you better than that."

"It's just …" Maggie began weakly, "you know," she concluded, knowing that Carolyn knew her well enough to guess.

"Maggie, you have to start living again. You're far too young to sit at home night after night waiting for Joe. No one will fault you for going out once in awhile. Besides, we're just going to have a little fun. What's wrong with that? Come into town with us—please, Maggie," Carolyn pleaded.

"No thanks, Carolyn. I don't want to be a third wheel."

"You won't be a third wheel. Will she, Tony?" Carolyn turned to her date. "Will she, Tony?" she repeated more insistently.

"Of course not. Please come with us. In fact, I don't know what we'll talk about all evening, if you don't," was Tony's sardonic reply.

Carolyn laughed. "There, you see. You must come with us."

Tony went to the liquor cabinet. "Shall I mix us drinks while she tries to convince you, Maggie? You may as well give in now. She won't give us any peace until you do."

"He's right you know," Carolyn laughed.

Maggie sighed deeply. "Okay. Give me a few minutes to change. I'll be right back."

A short time later at the Blue Whale …

In stark contrast to earlier in the day, the Blue Whale was now teeming with life. There were few enough gathering places in Collinsport. As a result, workers from the Collins family businesses, the town's shop owners, as well as its younger set all gathered at the tavern.

"The first round is on me," Carolyn announced as they settled at a table near the window. "I'll just go get them."

When she left, Maggie said to Tony, "She's certainly eager. I'm sorry about horning in on your date, Tony. You're a good sport …"

"Maggie," he said before she could finish, "Carolyn's right. You can't spend the rest of your life waiting for Joe to get better."

"You too, Tony. I look to you to be a moderating influence on her. Now I see you're on her side," Maggie said with a faint smile.

"I'm on _your_ side. I want you to be happy. We both do," Tony responded with the kind of gravitas that characterized the serious, young attorney. "You have to live your life, Maggie."

"Look who I met at the bar," Carolyn announced as she returned to their table, two drinks in hand. "John, this is my friend Maggie. Maggie, this is John. He's helping out around here, but he's off tonight. I thought he might join us." Carolyn giggled, "And as you see, he helped me carry the drinks over, so we have to ask him to join us."

"I should have known you were Carolyn's friend. She described you perfectly," John said. His eyes smiled at her.

Maggie gave Carolyn a stern look. "And I should have known it was a set up. You were entirely too keen on me joining you tonight."

"We just met— _honest_. Isn't that right, John?" said Carolyn with a broad smile on her face, "And like I said, we can't send him away now. I owe him at least one drink for helping me."

They distributed the drinks—a beer for Maggie, whiskey and soda for Carolyn, whisky neat for Tony, and a brandy for John. John took the empty seat beside Maggie.

"So, John," Carolyn began, flipping her long blond hair over her shoulder, "What brings you to Collinsport? And how do you know Maggie?"

John's eyes went to Maggie's. She in turn gave Tony a pleading look. "Come on, Carolyn. They're playing our song. Let's go dance," Tony said, taking Carolyn's hand and pulling her toward the small dance floor.

"We don't have a song," she protested.

"Well, maybe we will after we dance to it," Tony countered.

Carolyn was swaying to the music; Tony followed her lead. John watched them intently—his face a study in inquisitive wonder. Seeing his expression, Maggie asked, "Is something wrong?"

"Dr. Hoffman says I have an unusual form of amnesia. She said most amnesia patients lose memories, whereas I've lost more … I've lost entire experiences."

"Maybe you should have stayed at Windcliff. They could help, you know," Maggie said in a tone she usually reserved for the children.

"I might belong in jail, but I don't belong _there_. That much I know," he responded stiffly.

Maggie's face contorted slightly.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "Were you there for awhile? I didn't mean to sound—oh, I don't know—as though it's beneath me. I just know that whoever I am, I'm not insane."

"You don't have to be insane to need help—even the kind of help that Windcliff offers."

They sipped their drinks and watched Tony and Carolyn on the dance floor in silence for a time. John began again, "I don't remember ever dancing like that, or driving an automobile …"

"Maybe you aren't much of a dancer, and maybe you lived in New York City. Lots of people there take the subway everywhere," she said sensibly.

"I don't remember dialing a telephone. Dr. Hoffman had to show me how." A hint of panic crept into his voice.

"That is odd, but it's all the more reason you should let Julia help you," she said a voice she intended to sound reassuring.

"Like she helped you," he said mildly.

"My case was different," Maggie said staring at the bubbles in her beer.

"How?" he asked flatly.

Maggie drew a deep breath. "I was kidnapped," she began, "and when I was found … I … I'd had some kind of break with reality. I not only didn't know who I was, I'd regressed to childhood. It was Julia who helped me recover."

He looked embarrassed. "I didn't mean to pry," he told her.

Maggie laughed heartily.

"Did I say something funny?" John asked, confused by her unexpected response.

"No. I was about to say that there are no secrets around here, but there are so many secrets. It's just that what happened to me isn't one of them. All you have to do is mention my name in town, and someone will say 'oh yes, poor Maggie Evans, do you know about that time she went missing?'

"I could never remember who kidnapped me, or why, or how I escaped, but at least, thanks to Julia, I don't think I'm six years old anymore." She took a long sip of her beer, and turned her eyes away from his, pretending to look out the window. He waited in silence, eyes fixed firmly on her face. When she'd packed away her emotions, she continued, "Have I convinced you to give hypnosis a try?"

"I hope that isn't the only reason you allowed me to join you tonight," he said in a silky voice and fixing her with an intense look. The come-on artist was back, and at his most charming. "I'd ask you to dance, but I don't remember how. Maybe I was a great dancer before or maybe I had two left feet."

"You'll never know if you're too afraid to find out," she challenged him.

"I am afraid, Maggie. What if I'm not a good person? What if I did something unspeakable and the amnesia has blotted it out? What then?" he asked, growing serious again.

"I doubt that very much. I have a theory. I think that the amnesia makes you forget things—memories, people, places, but it doesn't change who we are. If we're basically good or kind, it doesn't rob us of that. Or if we're fundamentally cruel or evil, it can't obscure that completely. So, my guess is, whoever you turn out to be, you're probably not so bad." She paused and looked at him expectantly.

"I think I still need some convincing … say, tomorrow over dinner?"

"Are you always on the make?" she asked with some measure of exasperation.

"If that means, do I want to get to know a beautiful woman better? Then yes. As they say, a faint heart never won fair lady."

She wrinkled her nose. "That's a quaint aphorism."

She looked out of the window again. By rights, she should have nothing more to do with him, and yet there was something about him—something contradictory—at once unsettling and compelling. It was more than the mere recollection of his face from her dreams. She felt drawn to him. In part, it was his plight, which reminded her of her own experience. In part, if she were honest, it was the intensity of his gaze. His eyes were constantly searching her face—for what, she could not say. But rather than making her uncomfortable, she found connection and unexpected ease. She turned back and found his eyes still set on her.

"So, will you join me? I can't afford the dining room at the Inn, but I can ask Ed for an advance on my meager wages, and take you to the coffee shop. It's not fancy, but it's good."

Maggie laughed. "I know. I used to work there. And yes, it's a date—but you should know that I'm going to keep trying to talk you into letting Julia help you."

"I don't know you well, Maggie Evans, but I never doubted it."

"I'll meet you at the coffee shop at 7:00?"

"I'll see you then," John responded warmly.


	24. Chapter 24

Thick fog blankets the Collinwood Estate, shrouding the contours of both its landscape and the many mysteries endured by generation after generation of the Collins family.

In 1795, construction on the Great House of the Collinwood Estate was completed under the direction of Collins family patriarch, Joshua Collins. He was a formal man—serious, thoughtful, and proud. Not far removed from the war of independence that earned the colonies freedom from the English crown, Joshua still admired some of the old ways and modeled himself on the landed gentry. To Joshua's way of thinking, they were landowners who took care of their people. And he decided that all who lived in the town of Collinsport and all who leased and worked the farmlands of the estate were _his_ people—his to look after, care for, and ensure their wellbeing.

Unlike the British gentry, he tried to cultivate a modern relationship with both the tenant farmers who worked the estate's farms, and with the men in town who worked in his growing business concerns. They did not owe him tribute; it was a modern landlord-tenant relationship he sought. And the men who served in his growing fishing fleet, worked for a good wage and the enjoyed the right to rent a cottage in town for a reasonable rent. Still, he stuck to some of the traditional ways. He encouraged his wife, Naomi, to visit the farmers' wives and the families that lived in and around Collinsport. It suited him to share the largesse of his family through these visits, as well as to have a window into the lives of those who owed their living and livelihood to him.

While his concerns in town grew and thrived, the farms did not. In 1795, Thomas Peabody and his wife worked one of the farms on the Collinwood estate. It was never an easy living, but when their farm animals began to die mysteriously, the living became impossible. It began with a few head of cattle. No one had ever seen the likes of the disease that afflicted them—seemingly overnight they were drained of blood and left little more than carcasses.

At first, the affliction was confined to Peabody's farm, but then it spread to others. The Peabody's, of course, were blamed as word of the unknown affliction spread amongst the farmers. Soon, the other farmers shunned them, believing the Peabody's farm to be the source of a plague. Thomas Peabody turned to drink and met an untimely death when, in a drunken stupor, he ventured to an unsafe stretch of the bluffs. The treacherous ground gave way beneath him and he fell to his death. Not long afterward, his wife packed her belongings and joined her sister in Bangor, leaving the farm behind.

In deference to the feelings of the remaining farmers, the Peabody's farmhouse was boarded up, and the land was not leased to another farmer. Then over time, Joshua shifted his focus increasingly to town, leaving the remaining farms to their own devices, and the Peabody farm to lie fallow for generations.

Collinwood 1897

Barnabas Collins woke as he did everyday as the sun set, by slowing lifting the heavy lid of his coffin from within. It was of course a necessity, but there was ritual involved too. For humans, there was variety—possibility. Not so for vampires. Their existence was bounded by the necessity of returning each dawn to a coffin, and rising each sunset, if they were lucky and remained undetected and undisturbed through the day.

Barnabas had now existed in three distinct time periods—most recently in 1897. In each, Collinwood provided the familiarity he not only needed to navigate the world, but also craved as a salve to the damaged parts of his soul that mirrored the damage he'd inflicted on others.

Over the years and the different periods of time in which he'd existed, Barnabas had tried a number of ways to satisfy his need for blood. In 1795, when he was first turned into a creature of the night, he sought blood wherever he could find it—sucking dry the animals on the estate's adjoining farms. It was not long before he learned that such measures might satisfy the needs of his body, but not his soul. Feeding from humans was about more than blood; it was about _bloodlust_. It was about control, mastery, and will. It was about _connection_ —about forging an immutable bond with those in his thrall—no matter whether they wanted the connection or not. It meant he was never truly alone, except during the day when he endured the ultimate isolation.

As he went through the ritual of raising the coffin lid, he expected to find Sandor waiting for him. He sat up and climbed out. To his surprise, it was Angelique waiting for him. Her eyes and hair glowed in the dim candlelight. She wore a dark green damask dress, covered by her short cloak. She still wore her gloves and hat, indicative of the fact that she had only recently arrived.

"Where's Sandor?" he asked, negligent of niceties or courtesy.

"At the Great House, putting the final touches on your cousin's tomb," she returned lightly.

"Don't say such things."

"Why not. It's not far from the truth of the situation," she said pointedly. "You should prepare yourself, Barnabas, for Judith will say far worse."

"Yes, I'm afraid, she will and rightfully so." Barnabas sighed, adjusted his sleeves and smoothed his jacket as was his custom upon rising each day. "So, it will be done by the time Judith and the others return this evening?" he asked.

"Yes, it will be done. Sandor worked quite diligently under my supervision," she laughed.

"I'm glad it is nearly done. I long to return to 1968, to leave all of _this_ ," he gestured around the basement, "behind."

Angelique began alighting the stairs and Barnabas followed her. "That's the irony, Barnabas. You don't intend to leave this behind. You plan to rejoin it, only at a different point in time. For whatever reason, you are incapable of leaving Collinwood behind, even when you have the means to do so. It's as though your very being is tied to this house throughout time."

"You're particularly philosophical this evening, Angelique," Barnabas said as they emerged from the basement stairwell into the foyer of the Old House.

"Perhaps. I had a good deal of time to think during the day I spent with your taciturn servant. I am sorry to inform you that no matter how desirous of returning to 1968 you are, there is still work to be done here, Barnabas," Angelique told him.

"I don't understand. I—we—have accomplished what I set out to do. We have ended the werewolf curse."

"For Quentin, yes. But think Barnabas—how did Chris Jennings come to have the curse?"

"It is too much of a coincidence to believe him unconnected to Quentin—and the I Ching brought me here, where I discovered that a member of my own family was afflicted with the curse. It suggests but one thing—he must have descended from Quentin, who passed the curse along to his descendents. Now, that the curse is ended, Chris should be free as well."

"Yes, assuming that we stopped the curse _before_ Quentin had any progeny."

"We must have."

"Consider this, if Quentin went on to have children, why is Chris a _Jennings_ , not a Collins?"

"Perhaps Quentin's future offspring was female, and her married name was Jennings," Barnabas said with some evident frustration.

"Perhaps. But what if Quentin has _already_ fathered a child, unbeknownst to him— _already_ passed on the curse to an heir, unbeknownst to him. We came all this way through time—we must be sure. Otherwise, it is all for naught," she said reasonably.

"I suppose it is possible," Barnabas said, as his mind turned over what he knew of Quentin. "Quentin does have a checkered past."

"Like seducing and then abandoning his fiancé's maid," Angelique said bitterly. When Barnabas began to respond, she cut him off saying, "But we were speaking of Quentin."

Barnabas drew a deep inhalation. "Quentin's late wife went mad when he ran off with Laura, Edward's wife." He paused and thought of all he knew of their situation. "Judith and Edward locked her away, and cared for her at the Great House. I suppose it's possible that she bore him a child. It's equally possible that Quentin fathered a child in a meaningless dalliance."

"We must find out for sure, Barnabas."

"Yes, I must ask Judith. I suspect she alone will know the truth," he said.

* * *

Collinwood 1968

It wasn't a _date_ date, Maggie reminded herself again and again as she dressed. She flipped through dresses and rejected them all as too dressy for the coffee shop. Then she put on her rust-colored twinset and an A-line skirt. She felt like she was dressed for a day with the kids—like a governess. She pulled off the skirt and replaced it with a pair of trim gray plaid slacks. Then she styled her hair in a low ponytail and finished by accessorizing with a pair of drop earrings. She looked in the mirror. It was just the look she was going for.

David and Amy had had an early dinner and would spend the rest of the evening until bedtime under Carolyn's supervision. Maggie had to endure some gentle teasing from Carolyn as the price of asking the favor, but it was good-natured and Carolyn was happy to see Maggie cast off her homebody ways for an evening—especially for an evening with the handsome, mysterious John Doe.

Maggie pulled up to Collinsport's main street, and parked directly across from the coffee shop. She jogged quickly across the street, though there were no cars in sight. It was not quite 7:00 when she arrived, and John was already waiting for her.

"Punctuality is a good trait in a guy," she said as she approached.

"Thank you, I guess," he replied, unsure what to say to her.

She smiled. He wore it well—that moment of vulnerability. He was a noticeably handsome man—there was no denying it. Those eyes … But even the thought made Maggie's cheeks burn and flush. She thought of Joe and felt disloyal for finding this stranger so attractive and intriguing.

"Shall we go in?" he asked as he opened the door for her.

She led the way to a corner table. It was as it always was at this time of evening—half full, most people by themselves at the counter. Only one other table was occupied, and that was by two truck-drivers who looked like they were passing through, probably on the way to Bangor. A laminated red-checked tablecloth that no amount of wiping would ever make clean covered the table. Still, for all that, Maggie felt incredibly comfortable there. It was like coming home.

John took out two menus from the small rack on their table, and handed one to Maggie. "No need," she said. "I know everything on it. I used to work here."

"Right." He studied it and announced, "I think I'll try the Blue Plate Special."

"No, you won't," she told him flatly.

"It's …" he began.

"Meatloaf and mashed potatoes," they finished in unison.

"It's been the same since I was a girl, and trust me, you don't want it. In a place like this, it's best to stick to basics. The mashed potatoes come out of a box," she whispered. He looked at her. He was perplexed, but he liked her direct, matter-of-fact manner. "I'll order for both of us," she said.

A young woman approached their table with a small notebook in hand. "Hi Maggie," she said.

"Hi Annie." Maggie noticed that the waitress's eyes were fixed on John. Maggie put her out of her misery. "Annie, this is my friend, John. John, Annie."

"I guess _friend_ will have to do for now," he said to Maggie. Maggie felt a full-on blush race from her décolletage to the roots of her dark hair. Then he turned to Annie, "Nice to meet you, Annie. Maggie is going to do the honors tonight," he said in stately, formal way. His voice was buttery smooth.

"Two cheeseburgers, fries on the side, one chocolate shake and one vanilla shake." Then to John, she added, "You can try them both and decide which one you like best."

"I've never had a milkshake," he said tentatively.

"Then you're in for a treat." When Annie was gone, she continued, "It's too bad they don't have anything stronger."

"Perhaps I can buy you a nightcap at the Blue Whale," he said.

"Yeah, about all this buying of dinners and nightcaps, I was thinking maybe we should go Dutch. After all, you've only been working a few days. It's hard to get established if you're spending money before you've even earned it," she said practically.

There it was again—that perplexed look. "Go Dutch," he repeated.

"I can pay for myself, John," she said by way of explanation.

A hint of sullenness crept into his affect. "But I invited you and …"

"Don't worry about it. You can take me out on an official date some other time," she said without thinking.

"A date," he murmured. "I think I'd like that."

Maggie enjoyed watching John mirror her as they ate. Maybe he was European, because the burger seemed like an exotic treat to him. She couldn't help but smile as he awkwardly engaged the milkshake.

Throughout dinner, Maggie chatted easily about life in Collinsport, about growing up there—anything really. She intentionally skirted the dark, mysterious things, and instead painted a picture of small town life and how the Collins family businesses shaped and dominated the town. He seemed to take it all in. If he was bored or disinterested, he didn't show it at all. It was as though he wanted to soak in as much local lore and color as he could.

Finding her knowledge remarkably comprehensive, he asked, "Does everyone in Collinsport know so much local history?"

She laughed. "No. I've been doing a lot of research lately." She colored slightly, remembering how she'd searched for images of the man she'd seen in her dreams—and now here he was sitting in front of her. She went on, "I've been weaving local history into my history lessons for David and Amy—my charges."

"I'd like to meet your _charges_ sometime," he said conversationally.

"Do you like children?" she asked.

Before she could apologize for once again forgetting that he had no way of knowing, he responded, "I don't know for certain, but I feel like I do."

"That's good," she said with a smile that conveyed more warmth than happiness. "You should trust your feelings. Until your memory comes back, they're all you have that makes you _you_."

"Trust my feelings," he repeated softly. It was simple, yet profound, and no doubt grounded in her own experience.

Later that evening at the Blue Whale, John sat nursing a brandy, and even though it was rare for Maggie to drink anything more potent than a beer, tonight she joined him in his preferred libation. They sat in silence for a time. John watching her face and the way she wrinkled her nose with each sip of brandy. When he could no longer bear it, he said, "I could get you a beer or one of those bubbly drinks that women your age seem to favor."

He was older than she, but she had no idea by how much. But when he said it, there was something more of his being an old soul, than simply being her elder. "No—it's fine. I like its warmth and the way it creates heat from the inside out."

His eyes closed and his face contorted. "John?" She looked at him and touched his hand. "Are you alright?"

He opened his eyes and they met hers. "When you were recovering from … that time … did you ever have flashes? Like memories just out of reach or a feeling as though you've experienced something before, but it remains elusive."

"Yes—all the time. To this day, every time I go to the Old House, I have a feeling of fear and foreboding, but it remains shrouded. I know there's something there, but I can't name it."

"The Old House?"

"Yes. It was the original house on the Collinwood estate."

"What did you do about it? That feeling, I mean."

"At first, I turned to Julia—Dr. Hoffman. But now …"

"Now?" He searched her face.

"Now, I've resigned myself to never knowing for sure why I feel that way. Still, I live in fear that whatever happened during the missing time could happen again. Whoever took me is still out there, and he could do it again. My weakness—my inability to remember—to put the pieces together is the only reason he's still out there." Her words came in a rush. She looked down and added, "Sorry, I didn't mean to get heavy on you."

He gave her a puzzled, yet sympathetic look. "Heavy?" he asked.

"Serious and deep," she explained.

He took her hand in his. "It's okay, Maggie. And I don't think you're weak. I think you're brave to go on—and even try to help others, like me." He released her hand. "So, what's it like?" he asked out of the blue.

"What?"

"Being hypnotized."

Her eyes drifted away for a moment. When they returned to his face, they met his and found them searching hers with intensity. _What was it like?_ She never really thought about it before—not explicitly. Of course, she didn't really remember those early hypnotherapy sessions with Julia. She was, after all, a different version of herself then. But more recently when she asked Julia to help her get to the bottom of her strange dreams, she'd been eager to relinquish her conscious will and allow her subconscious mind to lead her. It led her to John—or to someone so very like him. "It's hard to describe," she began. "I think it works because you give up your will—you're no longer thinking or blocking particular thoughts. Then another part of your mind takes over and it leads you where you need to go, or in my case, where I was otherwise too afraid to venture."

He seemed to consider what she'd said.

"Well," she announced. "It's getting late and I really should be getting back."

"So soon? It's still early."

"Not for a working governess like me. I have to get up early to prepare my lessons for the day." Seeing his dejected expression, she added, "Look, you can always give me call."

While she rummaged in her small handbag looking for a pen, he asked, "Give you a call?"

Pen in hand, she looked up, "Yes—call me on the telephone." She jotted the number of the Collinwood house phone on her napkin and handed it to him. "I'm free most evenings after I put the kids to bed." He took the napkin and gave her a slight smile in return.

A short time later he walked her back to where she'd parked her car. He hated that she had to leave. It was odd that he could be himself with her—though he'd no idea who he really was. It was then that he realized what her companionship meant to him—sharing his thoughts and feelings with her was something no doctor could replace. He asked, "Maggie? When will I see you again?"

"I could show you around the estate sometime, if you're interested that is," she offered in light tone.

"I am," he replied in a low, longing voice. "Very."

She seemed not to notice the shift in his demeanor. "Great. How about Saturday?" she continued in a sunny voice.

 _That look_ , he thought. Her face was so open and expectant.

Now, she noticed the change in him. "What?" she asked him.

"I won't see you again until Saturday? That's a very long time to wait," came his silky response accompanied by a look so suggestive that she felt a surge of heat from within.

"Really John, you are the most single-minded, come-on artist I've …"

He stayed her words with a lingering kiss. His hands found her waist. Reflexively, her hand caressed his cheek. And when they parted, her hand went to her lips. Her cheeks flamed to life. He gave her a satisfied look. "Goodnight Maggie."

She got into the car, put the key in the ignition, and sat. How long had it been since she'd been kissed like that? Long after he'd walked off into the night, she felt butterflies in the pit of her stomach.

* * *

When John returned to the Blue Whale, he found the proprietor, his benefactor, Ed, clearing tables. Though he wasn't meant to be working that evening, he went to help, taking two handfuls of glasses back to the kitchen. As he turned back toward the bar, he found Ed standing in the doorway blocking his path.

"I saw you in here with Maggie Evans," Ed said in an accusatory tone.

"Just a nightcap and some good conversation," John replied genially.

"Maggie's been through a lot. I don't want to see her get hurt again," Ed told him in a stern voice. "Sam Evans was a friend of mine, so I—a lot of us here in town—take it on ourselves to look out for her. Do you understand?"

"I take your point, Ed, but I would never do anything to hurt Maggie."

"Well, somebody did, and to this day we don't know for sure who or why. We're a little suspicious, that's all. The last thing in the world she needs is some bounder passing through town breaking her heart or worse."

"I'm not some bounder," John said defensively, though in his heart he knew the tavern-keeper's concern had some merit.

"Maybe not, but until you're sure of it, tread lightly where Maggie's concerned."

* * *

Collinwood 1897

Being away from the estate, even for a day, was a balm to Judith's heavy heart. Recent months had driven home to her the truth of the Collinwood curse that many whispered about behind her back but never to her face. Still, she knew. She knew what the shopkeepers in Collinsport, the workers at the mill, and the fishermen of the Collins fleet thought, to say nothing of their wives. She knew that for all their money, position, and status, others would never choose to trade places with the Collins family and brave the curse of unending grief and misery. Now, she too believed it.

Being the family matriarch and mistress of the estate was hardly what she envisioned when her grandmother died and left her in charge. Since then, it had been an endless string of death and violence. Losing Quentin was just the latest thing.

Sometimes she wished she could choose to absent herself from the estate for long stretches of time, as Edward often did—particularly now, as she felt the crushing weight of the Collins curse. But she had always been more responsible—more dutiful—than any of her brothers. She believed that her grandmother had chosen her because of her strength and her resolve. No matter the curse or how it manifested itself, she would stay at Collinwood. She would do what was necessary to ensure that the family endured. This was why her grandmother had chosen her rather than Edward.

On their return, Mrs. Dunn took the children upstairs to their rooms. The other servants went directly to the servants' quarters. Dirk went to see to the carriage and horses, and then do his rounds of the estate, before retiring to the caretaker's cottage. As for Judith, she was left to go see whether the arrangements were ready—to close the west wing—to all but entomb her baby brother in his apartment in a trance-like state.

It was there—in the west wing—where she found Barnabas and Angelique waiting for her. Immediately, a flood of resentment swept over her. They stood in what was now the antechamber of Quentin's apartment. It was littered with randomly selected trunks and bits of furniture they'd found in nearby rooms and the basement.

"Is it done?" Judith asked in a tone that conveyed both sadness and hostility.

"It is," Barnabas said. Then he proudly added, "I think you'll find that Sandor has done an admirable job in a very short time. Everything is to your specifications."

"I'll be the judge of that," she snapped irritably. But as Barnabas showed her the details of Sandor's work, she had to agree that it was well done.

Moving a trunk aside, Barnabas showed Judith where to push to release the latch from the outside. Stepping into the room, she had to force her eyes away from her motionless brother, to observe a note in Barnabas's handwriting with directions for Quentin to free himself when he came out of the trance. All that remained was to close and lock the west wing to others once and for all.

"It is satisfactory," Judith said at last. "And now, I wish to be alone with my brother."

"There is another matter about which we must speak," Barnabas began.

"I believe our matters are now concluded, Barnabas, and I wish nothing more to do with you," Judith said. Then turning to Angelique, she added, "Either of you."

"I'm afraid you must," Barnabas persisted. "It is of vital importance to the future of our family."

"Very well," Judith relented. "But not here—in the study."

Once they adjourned to the study, Judith did not sit, nor did she invite them to do so. Instead she stood and waited, arms folded across her chest. Barnabas began, "I must ask you something very important, Judith, and you must tell me the truth."

"You're lucky I am speaking to you at all, Barnabas, let alone telling me what I must do," she countered with evident bitterness. Then she continued, "But ask your question—the sooner you do, the sooner you'll be out of my presence."

Barnabas found her anger hard to bear, but rather than trying to mollify her, he turned to the purpose at hand. "Do you know whether Quentin has fathered any children?" he asked coming straight to the point.

She inhaled deeply and turned her back to them. She felt heat rising in her face. After all she'd been through, seeing Quentin alive and yet not so, she was unsure how to proceed. Should she simply tell him no and send them away forever? But what if there was something vital to their family's future? Finally, she turned back and asked, "Why do ask such a thing, Barnabas? And why is it vital to the future of our family?"

Barnabas wrung his hands. Should he tell her of the curse placed upon Quentin? What would the consequences be of doing so? Perhaps it would be best to lay the whole story before her and trust her to tell them the truth. He began tentatively, "You see, Quentin was …"

"What?" Judith demanded.

"He was afflicted with a condition that may manifest itself in his male descendants," Barnabas began.

Judith challenged him. "What was the nature of this _affliction_? I saw no evidence of any—other than a propensity to drink more than was healthful for three men, let alone one."

"I cannot say more than that, only that we wish to help. If Quentin has a child, we can end this affliction."

Judith seemed to consider. "And how would you end this affliction? As you have for Quentin? Would you leave his child unresponsive and suspended in time?" Before either her companions could responded, she went on, "It's just as well that he has no children."

Angelique said, "She's lying, Barnabas—and badly."

"I know," he said.

Judith gathered herself up proudly. "I've heard what you have to say …" she began.

Angelique could no longer bite back her feelings. "Really, Barnabas. Allow me. I'll have the truth from her in no time," she said, taking a step forward.

Judith's eyes widened. Barnabas intervened, "Leave us, Angelique."

"Are you dismissing me, Barnabas?" Angelique asked in that imperious tone so familiar to his ears.

"No," he said soothingly. "Please wait for me in the drawing room. I wish to have a private word with my cousin."

"Very well," she said though her facial expression far from matched her words. She swept from the room, closing the door none too gently behind her.

"Judith," he began as he approached her, "You must tell me the truth."

"Why? You've done nothing to earn it," she retorted angrily.

He took her by the arms. She struggled, trying to shake off his hands. "Look at me, Judith." He tightened his grip on her and drew her closer to him. "Look at me!" he commanded. Slowly, her face turned toward him. Her eyes met his and she found she could not look away. "I'll have the truth now." But by then, it was too late—too late for Judith to tell him of her own free will. He was already in the grip of his bloodlust—his desire to control—his desire for a connection that fed him both body and soul. His fangs appeared seemingly of their own volition. He pulled her close and sunk his fangs into the soft flesh of her neck. She whimpered softly at the initial moment of surrender. He realized as he always did in that moment, that it was what he wanted all along. He could have allowed Angelique to extract the information they sought, but he wanted to do it. He wanted _this_.

But this time would be different. He would not go too far as he had with Beth. Had he exercised restraint that night, everything would be different now. So instead of draining his cousin as he had Beth, he struggled against his base instinct. He retracted his fangs, as his now weak, trembling cousin collapsed in his arms.

* * *

Angelique had long since grown tired of waiting for Barnabas's return. She had paced, sat, enjoyed a glass of very fine sherry, and was about to begin pacing again when the drawing room door opened and the two cousins came in.

Barnabas escorted his pale-looking cousin to the davenport. All the while, she casually held her hand at her neck.

"Quentin's son with Jenny has been adopted by a family in a neighboring town—the _Jennings_ family," he said.

Although Angelique heard his words, there was fury in her eyes. She stood, approached Judith, and roughly pulled her hand away from her neck to reveal the twin puncture wounds underneath.

"Barnabas?" Judith said in a weak voice.

He turned to her and stroked her hand. "Rest now, Judith. I must leave now, but I will come to you again tomorrow, if you wish it."

"I do," she returned in a soft, pliant tone.

"Here is what you must do," Barnabas crooned to his enthralled cousin. "You must rest tonight and tomorrow. Tell the staff that you are unwell. Keep to your bed and keep the curtains drawn against the sunlight. I will come to you after sunset. Be waiting for me and be sure to dress to disguise the secret we share. Remember, that secret is, and should always be known only to us three. Go now," he said, helping her to her feet.

She rose. "Must I?" she asked. "Must I go away from you so soon?"

"Yes, my dear. Go now—rest. _That_ is what I need for you to do."

With that, Judith made her way on shaky, weak legs to her apartment and then to bed.

* * *

"Barnabas …" Angelique began indignantly.

"This is what I am," Barnabas broke in. "This is what you've made me. It's fine in the abstract, isn't it, Angelique?" He met her indignation with his own. "But this is the reality. This is how I secured the information we need. This is how I compelled her cooperation and I'll not apologize for it—not to you of all people."

To his surprise, Angelique softened and laughed. "So, you embrace the gift I've given you when it suits your purpose."

"Yes, Angelique. You may see it that way if you wish."

"Oh, I do, Barnabas. That is exactly how I see it," she gently chided him.

He changed the subject. "When will you lift the curse from the child?" he asked.

"It must be on the night of the next full moon," she told him.

"Then completion of our ultimate goal is not far off. I am glad, for Chris's sake." He grew thoughtful, "What will you do then?"

"I believe I will stay. Stay with me, Barnabas, here in this time," she implored.

"You want to stay here? I don't understand. Why?" he asked, perplexed.

"It may surprise you to learn that I like it here, Barnabas. I like being here where you have treated me as a partner and a welcome companion."

"I have appreciated your companionship and your help immensely," he admitted, "but you must see that I cannot stay here."

"And why not?" she asked.

"In 1968, I am cured. I am free," he told her.

She laughed and the familiar sound rang in his ears. "My dear Barnabas, there is nowhere you can be free, because wherever you go you take your guilt with you. That's the reason you're here now."

"Yes, it is as you say. I am free nowhere, but in 1968, I am cured, and as a result I will have less to atone for than if I stay here and live as I am now. Surely, you can see that—especially after what I've done tonight."

"As you wish, Barnabas, return to 1968 if you please, but the price I ask for services rendered …" she began. He braced himself for what was to come next. "Is that you spend a year here with me." She looked at him.

"A year? Here?" he repeated in disbelief. "How will we live? What will we do?"

"We shall carry on as betrothed. I will make the Great House my home—Judith will accede to this. But I'll be at the Old House to meet you each evening when you rise. We will have every evening to do as we please."

"Why, Angelique?"

She threw back her head and laughed. He was struck by the way her curls danced and caught the light. "Because I like it here, Barnabas. I like it here," she repeated. "Here, I was never a servant. People in town wait on me and treat me with respect. _I_ feel free here, Barnabas. And while there are a few here who should have treated me better …"

Hearing her tone, he interrupted, "Ah, that's the Angelique I know."

"Yes, Barnabas, I'm still the Angelique that you know—I embrace what I am. I have powers and gifts and I am not afraid to use them—and if I recall, it has suited you time and again to call on me to use those powers," she told him angrily.

"Yes—to help _others_."

"To help _you_ , Barnabas—to help you pursue your personal need for penance. And did you ever once stop to ask why I helped you? Did you ever ask yourself why I respond to your summons again and again? Why I never refuse to come to you?" She paused, drew a deep audible breath, and went on, "It is because I still love you, Barnabas. I don't share your need to do penance for doing wrong, but I have helped you out of love. Perhaps, I am misguided, but I can no more stop loving you than I could stop using my powers and gifts. They are a part of me and so are you, in a way."

"And after the year is over?" he asked.

"I will return you to 1968, if you still desire it."

"And you?"

"As I said, I like it here. I think I will return here," she told him with her chin tipped up, and shoulders drawn back.

"And how will you live then if I am in 1968?"

"I will make myself an indispensable companion to Judith. I believe she has two other brothers. Perhaps one of them will fall in love with me," she told him with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

But Barnabas failed to mark it. "Any Collins will do, I suppose," he responded bitterly.

"Perhaps," she said cocking her head to one side. "Perhaps that's what I feel is owed me by the Collins family. If you won't compensate me appropriately, perhaps someone else will," she taunted him.

"No, Angelique!" he said. "No more! No more games—no more of _this_ ," he searched for a word to describe an indescribable relationship of love and war. He took her in his arms and for a moment he felt the barely-sated bloodlust bubbling up inside of him again. He would have gladly bared his fangs once again and taken her as his own, but he knew she would never allow it. More than that, he knew he would not want her that way—weak and in his thrall. She was only worth having as an equal who stood by his side. So instead, he kissed her passionately—desperately trying to channel his hunger and desire in a different direction. She allowed it—she welcomed it—at long last.

When they broke apart, she said with a characteristic gleam in her eyes, "You have a year to decide what you really want, Barnabas."


	25. Chapter 25

In the Great House at Collinwood, the walls, corridors, and stairways are more than witnesses to the Collins family mysteries and secrets—they are a party to them. Construction on the house was completed in 1795, the same year in which Barnabas Collins was turned into a vampire and locked away in a coffin in a secret room, in the family mausoleum. The house was built to the specifications of Barnabas's parents, Joshua and Naomi Collins. It was modern by the standards of its time, and unlike the Old House, over the years subsequent generations of the family had updated the house, installed modern conveniences, and added their own secret features.

Over time, the family closed an increasing numbers of wings and rooms due to disuse and the need to economize. What remained unchanged, however, were the hidden passages, stairways, and rooms integrated throughout the house. Though whole swaths of the house were unused by its current inhabitants, they retained their secrets and hidden purposes.

Collinwood 1968

When the house phone at Collinwood rang late Friday evening, Maggie was unsurprised to learn the call was for her. She expected it.

John had called her nightly, including the night of their first "date." She had just walked in that night, hanging her sweater by the front door of the Great House, and setting her purse on the table in the foyer, when the house phone rang in the drawing room. She went at once to answer it.

"Hello," she said.

"May I speak to Maggie Evans, please?" came the voice through the phone line.

"This is she," Maggie told him.

"I thought I recognized your voice," he said, "but I wanted to be sure."

Just then Mrs. Stoddard came into the drawing room. "I thought I heard the phone," she began.

"Just a moment," Maggie said into the handset. Then covering the mouthpiece, she said, "Yes, it's for me. I hope it didn't disturb you."

"Not at all," she smiled and backed out of the room.

Removing her hand, Maggie said, "Hi. I'm back."

"Hello," he said awkwardly. "You said I could call you."

She chuckled. "Yes, but I didn't think you'd call so soon."

"I'm sorry," he began.

"No, it's okay," she broke in. "Where are you calling from?" she asked.

"The phone in the back of the Blue Whale. Ed said I'm never allowed to use the phone in the bar. He said I'm not even allowed to answer it if it rings," he laughed.

Maggie laughed too. Then he told her about Ed's protective behavior, for which she apologized and explained. Before she realized it, a half an hour had passed. "I have to go," she told him then. "I still have to get up tomorrow."

"Right," he said. "To work as a governess."

"That's right."

"May I call you again?" he asked.

"Of course. Well, until then, goodnight," she said in a shy girlish voice.

"Goodnight Maggie."

He had called every night since then to wish her goodnight. And each night they had spent more time talking than she could account for at the end of the call. She could hardly say what they talked about—her day with the kids, his day and attendant flashes of insight, Ed's peculiarities—it hardly mattered.

So Maggie had intended to be close to the phone Friday evening, but Amy was restive and it took longer than usual to get her settled for the evening.

"I wish you were coming with us," Amy said.

"You're going to have a great time," Maggie told her.

"I know," her young charge responded. "I've never been to Boston before. I want to see everything," she enthused. "But …"

"But what?" Maggie asked.

"Sometimes, I'm a little afraid of Mrs. Stoddard. She seems so stern sometimes—not like you. That's why I wish you were coming too."

The next day, Mrs. Stoddard was taking Amy and David to Boston for a few days to visit Roger Collins, who was there on business. Roger had been away from the estate for a few weeks, and Elizabeth thought it was time for David to see his father. So, she arranged the trip. She had invited Maggie to go as her guest—not as the governess—but Maggie declined. Elizabeth guessed that the young woman, who had known so much hardship, needed a break from her charges and duties, and a vacation in the company of herself, David and Amy would hardly qualify as a break.

"Mrs. Stoddard isn't stern, just a little formal. She cares a great deal about you, Amy," Maggie told the girl as she tucked the covers around her.

"I know," Amy said, as her eyelids grew heavy.

Maggie checked the time on her watch necklace. "I'll see you in the morning, before you leave for the train station," she said. Then she turned off the lamp on Amy's night table and headed downstairs hoping she'd not missed the call she expected.

Arriving in the foyer, Maggie found the drawing room doors open. She could hear Carolyn's voice within. She peeked in to be sure she wasn't intruding. Carolyn was on the phone. Tony sat on the davenport, sipping a brandy. He greeted Maggie in a soft voice, so as not to disturb Carolyn. "Evening, Maggie."

"Hi Tony," Maggie replied in an equally soft voice.

"She just walked into the room," they heard Carolyn say to the caller. "Yes, of course." There was a brief pause. "You too." Carolyn turned to Maggie with a broad smile on her face. "It's for you," she said holding out the handset to Maggie.

Maggie's cheeks colored as she crossed the room and took the phone from Carolyn. Simultaneously, Tony rose and said, "That's our cue to finish our nightcap in the library."

Under different circumstances, Maggie would have demurred and protested about not wanting to displace them, but this evening she simply said thanks, and watched them leave.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello. I hope I'm not disturbing you," he began as he always did.

"Not at all. I had some difficulty getting Amy settled, that's why I …" her voice drifted off, not wanting to admit that she was waiting for his call.

"Maggie? Are you still there?"

"Yes—sorry."

"I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow … and visiting the estate," he added.

She laughed lightly. "I'm looking forward to it too. I thought I'd pick you up around 11:00, if that's okay."

"11:00 is fine, but I'd like to meet outside of the Inn, not at the Blue Whale."

"Away from Ed's prying eyes?" she surmised.

"Exactly. I want to stay in the good graces of my boss and landlord, and spending the day with you won't endear me to him."

"So," she said, preparing to say goodnight, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Then he asked why she'd had difficulty getting Amy to settle down and it led to a longer conversation. Once again, before she realized it they had spent the better part of a half-hour talking.

* * *

Saturday morning, Maggie woke far earlier than was necessary. She turned over and fluffed her pillow again and again in hope of falling back asleep. When at last she decided that she was now truly awake, she got out of bed and went to the window. Drawing back the curtains revealed a glorious day in the making. The sun was shining and the sky was clear though dotted with a scattering of fluffy white clouds.

Maggie immediately began to readjust her plans for the day. Though she had hours yet before meeting John in Collinsport, she went to the wardrobe and took out her cornflower blue sundress, a pale lilac cardigan and sandals. She held the dress in front of her and looked at her reflection in the mirror of her vanity. Today it felt like she was going on a date—a real date. And she wanted to look like it.

Later that morning, true to her word, she went to Amy's room.

"Wow, you look pretty," Amy said.

Maggie smiled. "Thank you. I guess the extra effort paid off."

"You always look pretty, Maggie," the child told her. "I meant you look _extra_ pretty today."

Maggie was now anxious to turn the conversation. She said, "Look what I brought." She held up her small train case. "I thought you could borrow it for your trip."

"Really, Maggie?" Amy's face beamed.

"Of course. You can pack your comb and brush, and eau de toilette in it," Maggie replied as she set the bag on Amy's dresser.

Amy went to Maggie and threw her arms around Maggie's waist. "I still wish you were coming with us."

"You'll be too busy having fun to notice I'm not there," Maggie laughed. "Let's finish your packing."

* * *

Having delivered Mrs. Stoddard, David and Amy safely to the train station, Harry Johnson returned to the Great House to pick up his mother. He and Mrs. Johnson were spending the weekend visiting her sister in Bangor, as well as restocking needed pantry items. Mrs. Johnson had worried whether the remaining residents of the Great House could do without her for the weekend, but received assurances from each that they would be fine left on their own for such a short time.

Thus it was that before long the Great House was very quiet. Carolyn, Maggie assumed, was sleeping in. Julia was probably already out and about—maybe at the Old House.

Maggie went to the kitchen. She enjoyed being there without feeling like an intruder, or having to ask Mrs. Johnson's permission. She had toast and coffee, and then finished her preparations for the day ahead.

* * *

Maggie placed the picnic basket on the table in the foyer and went to retrieve a blanket from the small closet under the stairs. When she emerged, Julia Hoffman was coming in the front door.

"Good morning, Maggie," Julia said. Then consulting her watch, she added, "Well, almost afternoon."

"Morning, Julia. Only an early riser thinks that quarter to 11:00 is nearly afternoon," Maggie said smiling.

Julia offered Maggie a slight smile. "Looks like you're heading out," she said observing the basket and blanket.

"Yes," Maggie beamed, "I offered to show John around the estate today, and it's such a nice day, I thought we'd start with a picnic lunch."

"Yes," Julia said, in a measured voice very familiar to Maggie. "It's a glorious day out, I've just returned from a walk myself." Then Julia came to the point that her wary tone foreshadowed. "Maggie, do you think it's wise to spend quite so much time with John?"

"You asked me to," Maggie responded with uncharacteristic tartness.

"Yes and I appreciate it—I do. But now, well, I'm concerned, that's all. We know very little about him and you two seem to be growing very close, very quickly."

"So people in town are talking about us?" Maggie asked.

"Yes, that and my own observation. It's just that it hasn't been that long since …" her voice trailed off.

"Go on, Julia. You can say it—since I was mentally disturbed," Maggie said bitterly.

"You know that I don't believe that," Julia said firmly. "But even your reaction to the notion that you're getting too involved suggests …" Julia searched for a tactful way to express her concern. "Maggie, you're still vulnerable. You've lost your father and Joe."

Maggie allowed her emotions to settle. "That's precisely what I like about being with John. He doesn't treat me like I'm fragile—like I might break if he says or does the wrong thing."

"Maggie, John is vulnerable too, " Julia hastened to add. "All I'm saying is, please be careful for both your sakes."

Maggie knew that Julia was right—and yet, it wasn't what she wanted to hear or think about. Still, she owed Julia a great deal. In deference to that, she said in a conciliatory tone, "I will. Thanks Julia." Then Julia headed toward the library and Maggie took the basket into the kitchen to pack their lunch.

* * *

Julia's warning had tempered her excitement about the day ahead. As arranged, John was waiting in front of the Collinsport Inn when Maggie arrived a few minutes after 11:00. All at once, when she saw him, all thoughts of their mutual vulnerability—all warnings of growing too close, too soon, were pushed to the recesses of her mind.

"Hi," she called to him through the opened passenger window as she pulled to a stop. "Hop in."

"You look lovely, Maggie," John said as he slid into the passenger seat beside her. He leaned over, closing the space between them, and delivered a peck on her cheek.

As they drove back toward the estate, Maggie noticed John was unusually quiet. Where, she wondered, was the chatty man who called each evening and stretched a brief goodnight into a thirty-minute conversation? She tried to fill the space by ticking off her plans for their day—a walk through the woods to see the Old House, Eagle Hill cemetery and the Collins family mausoleum, and of course the infamous Widows' Hill, and then ending the day at the Great House.

"But first," she said, gesturing to the basket and blanket in the backseat, "It's such a nice day that I thought we'd have a picnic lunch."

"That sounds nice," he said distractedly.

Maggie turned off of the main road onto a smaller lane what wound down toward the sea. She gave her full attention to her driving and set aside her worry about John's sudden reticence. About two-thirds of the way down the road, there was clearing. Maggie pulled the car to one side of it and parked.

"The road continues," she told him, "but it's too narrow for the car. We have to go the rest of the way on foot. You don't might, do you?"

"Not at all. Lead the way," he said, sounding more like the man she'd come to know. "I'll follow you anywhere, Maggie," he added, definitely sounding like himself.

They retrieved the basket and blanket from the backseat. He carried the basket and she took the blanket as they continued on foot down the remaining distance of the road.

She noticed that he kept adjusting his shirt. Finally, she asked, "Is something wrong? With the shirt, I mean."

"What do you think of it?"

It was a short-sleeve knit shirt in brown with gold accents—very au courant. "It's nice?" she answered speculatively, wondering what he was trying get at.

"Do you think it suits me?" he asked, looking down at it. "Because it doesn't seem like me somehow. I know I should be grateful to the people at Windcliff for buying me clothes, but … well, it seems so informal—just—not me. I think whoever I really am, perhaps I'm vain about such things."

She laughed and offered a few reassuring words, but silently wondered whether that was all that was bothering him. Somehow, she thought not, but he would open up to her when and if he was ready.

As they rounded the final bend in the road, the small cove lay directly ahead of them. When they arrived, John held the basket, while Maggie spread the blanket in the shelter of the bluffs behind them. "Lunch is nothing special, I'm afraid—just what I could throw together—sandwiches, cookies, apples and a thermos with some lemonade. But still, it's a nice day for a picnic …" She realized she was prattling on and fell silent for a few moments. They dug into the picnic lunch. He preferred ham and cheese to the alternative—peanut butter and jelly. They finished the small meal accompanied by the sound of the surf lapping at the shore.

He set the empty basket off to the side. Then he gamely picked up the conversation. "This is a lovely spot. Do you come here often?" he asked.

She settled herself on the blanket—stretching out on her back, with her hands, fingers interlaced, behind her head. He followed suit, except settling on his side, propped on his elbow—the better to see her face. "Not often, but I used to, in the summer with Pop," she answered.

"Pop?"

"That's what I used to call my father."

"He was a painter, right?"

"Yes and he loved to paint seascapes—sometimes right here on the cove." Maggie paused, a wistful look on her face. "Everything's different now," she continued. "This is the first time, I've …" She chewed at her lower lip.

"What?" he asked.

"The first time I've been back since the day that Pop found me here at this cove after the kidnapping." She turned slightly to assess his reaction. "I don't remember any of it, of course. But I realized that I've been avoiding this place."

"Until now?"

"Well," she said with forced nonchalance, "there had to be a first time. After all, the cove is too pretty to avoid forever—especially on a perfect day for a picnic." She hadn't realized until now how talking to him about her dark time had brought things to the surface that she usually kept buried. She was quiet for a moment before adding, "I'm sure you must think I'm as damaged as everyone in Collinsport says I am."

"Just because I don't know who I am, doesn't mean I can't see what kind of person you are, Maggie. You're a person of quality. You're caring—look at all you're doing to help your friend, Julia." A splash of color stained Maggie's cheeks. "Why are you blushing?" he asked.

One hand went to her telltale cheek. "Well, I'm not doing _all_ of this for Julia," she confessed with a coy smile.

"Does that mean you actually like me?" he asked in a deep, silky tone.

"I do, John—very much."

"I hope you still do when I tell you that I allowed you to bring me here—under false pretenses."

Maggie was instantly on her guard. The echo of fear and shadow of abduction rippled through her. "What do you mean?" she asked as her entire body tensed.

"Well, I've already agreed to let Julia hypnotize me. So, you see, I no longer need convincing—I just wanted to spend the afternoon with you," he told her in his most charming manner.

Maggie's body relaxed at once. A visible look of relief crossed her features. "Oh," she said with a breathy exhalation. Perhaps that was the reason he'd been so taciturn. "Is that all? I'd given up on trying to convince you anyway. I mean—that's great though. I'm glad to hear it." A worried expression replaced her previous one.

"Are you sure?" he asked upon seeing the change in her countenance. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she lied. She could hardly tell him that now that he had agreed to undergo hypnosis, she was afraid of what he might remember. He might have a family somewhere—somewhere _else_. He might be married. The possibilities came to her in a flood. "Nothing's wrong. You're doing the right thing. So, when?"

"This afternoon—after we tour the estate, of course. Dr. Hoffman will meet us at the Great House."

"So soon," Maggie said softly.

"I thought you'd be pleased," John said searching her face.

"I am," she said starting to sit up. "We should probably get going."

"No wait," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder and gently guiding her back to the blanket. He cradled her with one arm around her shoulder, and stroked her hair with the other hand. "Whatever I find out about myself—about who I am and where I belong—there will always be a special place in my heart for you, Maggie."

She turned to face him. All at once, throwing caution to the ocean breeze, she sought his lips with hers and kissed him deeply. Passion sparked between them, and they allowed it to carry them away. Only later, after they'd returned to the car and headed back up toward the bluffs of the estate, did Maggie allow tentacles of worry to invade her thoughts.

* * *

Maggie carefully retraced the way they'd come heading back up the windy road to the main Collinsport road. From there, she turned onto the Collinwood drive and drove nearly half a mile through the woods to where the drive widened and branched in two directions. She pulled over and parked.

"The woods seem so inviting during the day, but once the sun sets it feels completely different," she said as they exited the car.

"Where to first?" he asked.

"Widows' Hill," she said. "It's this way through the woods. It's actually almost above the cove where we had lunch," she told him, "but when we emerge from the woods, we'll be at the far end of the cove above that rocky out-cropping."

When they reached the spot where according to local mythology, women waited for their husbands to return from sea, Maggie told John several of the tales associated with the place. He pronounced it too beautiful to have inspired such a grim reputation. They didn't linger long on the sad, treacherous precipice. Instead, they turned back toward the woods to visit the Old House.

As they made their way, John remembered that Maggie told him that she found the Old House unsettling. He began, "We don't have to visit the Old House if you'd rather not."

"No, it's fine," she said, though she folded her arms tightly across her chest. "We won't able to go in, of course—which is too bad really, because Barnabas has restored it to its original glory."

"Barnabas," he repeated absentmindedly.

"Yes," she said. As they walked on through the woods, she continued, "I'm sure you've heard him spoken of. He's quite an eccentric character. People in town are always remarking on it. Anyway, he's away at the moment and even if he wasn't, he's not the sort of person to welcome unexpected guests. He's quite formal. The only person who drops in on him is Julia. They're best friends, I guess you'd say."

She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and looked up at him. His face was ashen. "John, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he told her without conviction.

"You look pale. Are you sure you're alright? Because we can head back to the car."

"I'm fine," he said decisively this time.

"We're almost there. It's just beyond that stand of trees." As they rounded the small cluster of trees, the Old House came into view. Maggie thought how odd it was that daylight transformed the woods from a dark, foreboding place to something more welcoming, yet it never did the same for the Old House. Even in full daylight, even on a remarkably sunny, warm afternoon, something cool and dark emanated from the mansion.

They stood at the edge of the clearing, looking at the house. Maggie clearly did not want to linger. "Cemetery next?" she asked.

"Lead on, Miss Evans," he said in faux formality.

She laughed and led them back into the woods. "You can decide for yourself which is more unwelcoming—the Old House or Eagle Hill cemetery."

She watched him discretely as they walked. He looked remarkably pale and one hand massaged his temple. They approached the cemetery from its far end. She had intended to show him some of the family graves as they made their way to the mausoleum. From there, they would circle back to where she'd parked the car and then drive the rest of the way to the Great House. But her plans took a detour.

They were halfway down the first row of headstones. Maggie was saying that most of the Collins family was buried there, but a few were interred in the mausoleum. She'd been so focused on looking at the headstones, that she initially didn't notice that John had abruptly stopped a few feet behind her.

John moaned aloud. His hands went to his temples. "Uhhh …" he moaned loudly in pain.

"John!" she cried, running toward him. "What's wrong?"

"My head," he eked out. He staggered a step or two toward her. He seemed to recover slightly. He drew a deep but ragged breath. "I'm sorry, Maggie. I can't go on. Please take me back to town."

"To _town_?" she asked, incredulous. "No way. You need a doctor."

He pulled himself to his full height and let his hands fall to his sides. "I just need to rest. I'll be fine. When I get to the Blue Whale, I'll call Dr. Hoffman and explain."

"There is no way I'm taking you back to the Blue Whale in this condition. You're coming back to the Great House with me. You need a doctor—and Julia is a doctor," she told him, brooking no opposition.

"Maggie, I …" he began. "Uhhh …" Another wave of pain swept over him. He squeezed his eyes shut and his face contorted. He held his head between his hands until the pain subsided.

"Do you think you can make it back to the car?" she asked, working hard to keep her panic at bay.

He nodded.

He opened his eyes as the pain abated. "I really don't want you to see me like this," he said, turning away from her gaze.

"Don't be silly," she said. "Do you think you can make it back to the car?" she asked again, though she had no idea what she would have done had he said no. She couldn't leave him there and even if she could, once she returned with the car, he would still need to walk as far as the drive. A fresh wave of worry washed over her.

"Yes," he answered in a weak voice. "I think so."

"Good. You only have to make it as far as the drive," she articulated her previous thoughts but framed in a positive tone. "Then I can go and get the car, and pick you up."

"I feel a little better already," he said. "I think I can make it back to the car."

"Here, put your arm around my shoulder." He did as he was told without argument. She put her arm around his waist, more for physical comfort than to support his weight. As she did, she could feel his skin through the thin knit of his shirt. If anything, she thought he might be running a fever, but surprisingly, he felt cool to the touch—unnaturally so.

As they made their way through the woods, he joked, "You know I could be faking this just to get close to you."

"I wouldn't put it past you," she replied lightly, though the way his grip tightened on her shoulder, she could tell the pain was very real and had returned.

The distance from the cemetery to the car was objectively not far, but it seemed so to Maggie, as a different kind of fear from that which attended traversing the woods at night, possessed her. The sun was shining and its rays peeked through the branches of the trees. The fear that Maggie experienced was not of the unknown creatures that stalked the woods at night, but of the unknown ailment afflicting the previously robust young man.

John clung to her, but his body didn't grow warm from the exertion. He continued to feel preternaturally cool. When at last they reached the car, Maggie opened the door and John slumped in. He stretched his long body out, extending his legs as far as the seat would permit. His head rolled back and his eyes closed. Maggie ran to the driver's side and got in. Her hand trembled slightly as she fumbled in the pocket of her dress for the key. She willed herself to be calm—to do things mechanically—put the key in the ignition, turn over the engine, drive.

She drove as fast as she could while still feeling safe and not jostling John too much. In a few minutes they were making the turn on to the drive that led to the front door of the Great House. Maggie parked at the end of the drive nearest the house. She helped John out of the car and up the short footpath to the front door.

Once there, Maggie opened the door and called out "Julia? Carolyn?" Carolyn, she guessed, would be out somewhere with Tony. "Julia?" she called again. _What if Julia was at the Old House?_ Maggie tried to think logically. John told her that he was going to meet Julia here at the Great House later that afternoon. So that meant she was probably somewhere in the Great House or close by on the grounds.

John was now shivering with cold. "Do you think you can make it up the stairs?" she asked as they moved into the foyer proper. He nodded, but said nothing. His face seemed devoid of color and it seemed to Maggie that his lips were beginning to turn blue with cold. And yet, it was still a lovely, warm afternoon. It made no sense.

She positioned herself so that she could support him on one side, and he could use the banister for support on the other. Together they moved slowly up the stairs and from there down the hall that led to her room. She pushed open the door. With one hand still supporting John, she used the other to pull back the bedspread on her bed then helped him in. She drew the covers over him and said, "I have to go find Julia. I won't be long."

"Maggie," he began in a thin voice, but she stayed him with a finger to his lips. They were cold to the touch.

She kneeled down and pulled a storage case from underneath the bed. From it, she took out a thick comforter she used on especially cold nights. She covered him with it. Her heart ached for him. She didn't want to leave him, but she had to go. "I'll be back before you know it," she told him, in as close an approximation of normalcy as she could muster.

She ran down the hall to Julia's room and banged loudly on the door. "Julia! Are you there?" No response. She knocked again. Still nothing.

Maggie tried to think. Julia had not been in the drawing room. Perhaps she was in the library or the study and simply hadn't heard when Maggie called her name. She would try there first. _Then what?_ she thought as she ran toward the main staircase.

Running one hand along the banister lest she trip and fall, she went directly to the library. Julia wasn't there. Likewise, the doctor was not in the study. "Julia?" she called as she went from room to room.

Maggie backtracked through the foyer to the kitchen and pantry. "Julia?" she called, panic setting in. _How long will it take to search the entirety of the house and the grounds?_ Longer than John could afford to wait, she thought. Julia could be anywhere. It seemed likely though that if Julia were in the house, she would have heard Maggie by now.

Maggie ran to the front door and prepared to search the grounds, calling the doctor's name with each step she took. As she rounded the front walk toward the garden, she saw Julia coming toward her in long, purposeful strides. "Maggie? What is it? What's wrong?"

"Julia! Come quickly," Maggie said, already turning back toward the house.

Julia followed in her wake, trying to keep up with the young woman's quick steps. "What is it, Maggie?" she called.

"It's John!" Maggie replied over her shoulder. "Julia, he's sick—really sick." Maggie briefly relayed John's symptoms as they walked.

"Where is he?" Julia asked slightly panting from the pace, as they entered the house.

"He's in my room," Maggie said, already alighting the stairs.

Julia followed a few steps behind. "I'll get my bag and meet you there."

* * *

When Maggie returned to her room, John lay very still. His eyes were closed. She sat on the edge of the bed beside him and lightly brushed his hair to one side with her hand. Her fingers grazed his forehead—it was so cold.

He opened his eyes. "You came back," he said. "I thought maybe you found another date." He offered her a faint smile with his slightly blue lips.

"Not good odds of that happening on this isolated estate," she shot back.

Just then, Julia entered the room, with her familiar medical bag in hand. Maggie relinquished her place beside John, went to stand at the foot of the bed and watched Julia begin her examination of the patient.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to keep our appointment this afternoon, Dr. Hoffman," he quipped.

"I take it you're feeling better," she returned.

"Yes, in a way. The headaches are better."

" _Headaches_?" she asked. "You've had more than one."

"Yes. I had the first one yesterday," he said.

From her station at the foot of the bed, Maggie said, "You never said."

"I didn't want to cancel our date," he told her.

Julia shot Maggie a disapproving, 'I told you so' look, but she returned to her examination. While she checked his pulse she said, "Tell me about the headaches."

"They feel like my head is being ripped apart from the inside out," he said.

"Hmmm," Julia continued, "What were you doing when you experienced them?"

"Today," Maggie volunteered, "we were touring cemetery."

"And yesterday?" Julia asked John.

"I was taking a walk. I decided to return to the place where …" he searched for the right way to describe it, "… to the place of my first memory. I thought if I returned there, it might trigger something in my mind. I thought I might remember who I am. Instead, as I approached it, my head … the headache overwhelmed me and I had to return to town. I made it back to the Blue Whale and I felt better after I rested." He paused. While Julia rummaged in her bag, he continued, "That's when I called you, Dr. Hoffman."

Julia made a small dismissive sound in her throat and said, "You should have called me sooner." She produced her stethoscope from her bag. Fixing the earpieces, she told him, "Stay quiet and still." She pulled back the comforter and coverlet and then lifted his shirt. She moved the stethoscope around listening to his breath sounds, with a serious but noncommittal expression on her face.

Maggie paced away toward the window, both to give them some privacy and to expend some of the nervous energy animating her. There was something gnawing at her—a thought, a feeling desperate to get out. John's situation wasn't right. This shouldn't be happening—not like this.

A few moments later, Julia joined her. "He's very sick, Maggie."

"What's wrong with him, Julia?" Maggie asked in a strained, worried voice.

"I honestly don't know. His vital signs are weak, but it's the unexplained hypothermia that puzzles me most." Maggie turned back and looked at John. Julia went on, "We should take him to the hospital in Collinsport to run some tests."

"No, Julia," Maggie said in a tone heavy with foreboding. Her eyes seemed unfocused but never left John. She continued, "We have to get him to the west wing." She knew she said it, but the voice seemed to come from someone else.

"The _west wing_?" Julia was incredulous. Then she went on more forcefully, "Maggie, he could be dying. He needs medical attention."

Maggie persisted, "You just said you don't know what's wrong with him."

"Yes, but I think we need to run some tests to find out. What will taking him to the west wing accomplish? Except wasting precious time."

Maggie looked resolved, "It's more than just a feeling, Julia. I was led to the west wing for a reason and now here he is, the man I saw there—in a crisis—here in this house. I know the answer is there. It's just like Professor Stokes told me it would be …"

" _Stokes!_ " Julia was indignant. "You consulted him?"

"He said the occult might yet play a role is explaining my dreams and I believe him. And I agree with you, we are wasting time. We need to get him there at once."

* * *

"I'm a woman of science, Maggie—and a doctor— _his_ doctor," Julia said, though she was in fact leading the way to the west wing.

Maggie and John followed behind her. Maggie supported him as she had earlier with his arm around her shoulder and her arm around his waist, but he leaned more heavily on her than before. "Tell me there aren't a great many things about Collinwood beyond the explanation of science, Julia." Maggie retorted in a tight voice. "Everyone in town knows it—the Collins family does too."

By now, they had reached the door to the west wing that Maggie had fixed to open at will. Julia pushed it open and led the way to the storage room, which they had discovered had false walls. John and Maggie followed her in. John was too weak to stand, so Maggie helped make him comfortable sitting on one of the storage trunks.

"So, now what?" Julia asked in a testy tone.

Maggie went to the wall and knocked on it. She pulled away a trunk that was blocking her way. There was a dressmaker's dummy next to it. She moved that too. Then she noticed it—a fine seam seemed to partition the wall. She knocked hard on it and it gave a little. She turned back to Julia. "I'll be right back." She knelt in front of John, "I won't be long. I promise." Then she ran from the room toward the secret passage at the far end of the hall.

Once she was gone, Julia turned to John and said, "While she's gone, I think I should get you to the hospital."

"No, thank you, Dr. Hoffman. I think Maggie deserves to find her answers."

"At the cost of your life?" Julia asked sharply in response.

"I'm dying anyway," he said.

"You don't know that," was Julia's emphatic reply.

"I do. I'm growing cold from within, Dr. Hoffman, and my whole body feels attenuated somehow, as though every part of me is being stretched thin," he sounded resigned.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before they heard Maggie's quick footsteps in the hall. In a moment, she was back, lugging a battered, red toolbox. She carelessly dropped it on the floor, popped it open, and began rummaging through it. "I couldn't find a crowbar," she said thinking aloud, as well as answering the unspoken puzzlement of the others. She lifted the top compartment out of the toolbox to reveal the larger tools underneath. These, she pulled out one after another, tossing them aside until she found a large screwdriver. "This will have to do," she said.

"What are you going to do?" Julia asked.

But Maggie was already at the wall, jamming the screwdriver between the seams of the wall, trying to pry it loose. When that failed she began running it down the length of the seam. Tears of frustration gathered in her eyes. She ran the screwdriver all the way to the bottom of the wall. Nothing. Then she began running it up in the opposite direction. She stood on her tiptoes, extending the screwdriver above her head. Then she felt it.

She turned to Julia. "Help me push that trunk over here." Together they moved the trunk so that Maggie could climb up on it and reach the top of the wall. She jammed the screwdriver in again and worked it up and down.

"What is it?" Julia asked.

"I'm not sure," Maggie began. Just then they heard a soft click. The panel unlatched and gently swung open slightly to reveal itself to be a door to a chamber within.

Maggie climbed off of the trunk. Together, she and Julia pushed it aside. Maggie drew a deep breath then pulled the door open. She stepped inside. "No!"

Julia followed Maggie into the room. They took in the scene together. "I don't understand," Maggie said aloud. There at a table sat a man who could be John's twin.

"The I Ching," Julia said, observing the wands in front of him. The hexagram was familiar to her. She saw it daily when she went to check on Barnabas.

"Who is he? What does it mean, Julia?" Maggie asked.

"It means you were right. You were led here for a reason. This man is in a trance-state, Maggie."

"But what does it mean for John?"

"I'm not sure, Maggie. I wish I knew, but so much about the I Ching is a mystery to me." Julia looked around the room. Everything in it was from the late 19th century—the furnishings and accoutrements—perhaps the man as well. He certainly looked it, yet untouched by the passage of time. And she observed, the clothes were identical to the ones that John wore when he arrived at Windcliff.

Julia noticed an envelope on the mantle. She looked at it closely. Julia drew a sudden breath. "Quentin" it read in Barnabas's familiar handwriting. An old-fashioned broach lay beside it. She opened the note and read it silently.

"Maggie." John stood in the doorway. His skin was almost glowing. He was so pale; he was nearly translucent. But he seemed to have recovered enough strength to stand unsupported. All at once his silhouette seemed to vibrate. The translucence grew and the very edges of his being seemed to fade.

"Julia! What's happening to him?" Maggie cried.

"I don't know," Julia responded in wan voice.

"We have to help him!" Maggie said taking a step toward him. "John! Can you hear me?"

"Wait! Don't touch him." Julia restrained her younger friend with a firm grip on her arm.

"He's … he's fading." Maggie's eyes were wild with fear and confusion. "I don't understand how this can be happening."

Gradually the translucence around his silhouette enveloped him and John's physical being began to fade. "John! Speak to me," she called, still restrained from approaching or touching him.

"Maggie." It was his last word then he faded completely away.

"John. What happened to him, Julia?" Maggie asked, tears in her eyes.

Julia released her grip on Maggie's arm and turned her attention to John Doe's doppelganger still seated at the table, still in a deep trance. Only now did he move and speak. With an audible inhalation, his head rocked back suddenly, causing both women to gasp in surprise. Then just as suddenly, he fell forward. He slumped over and his head fell toward the table; his arms extended forward scattering the wands across the table, destroying the hexagram in the process.

"Julia, we have to help him." Maggie would not be restrained this time—having witnessed what happened to John. She went to the man and knelt beside him. She put her hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright? Can you hear me?" He moaned.

Then Julia went to him, took his wrist, and assessed his pulse. "He has a strong pulse."

The man moaned again, and lifted his head. "Where am I?" he managed to ask in a parched, raspy voice.

"Collinwood," Maggie responded.

He turned his unfocused gaze fully to her. "Collinwood?"

"Yes—the west wing."

"Collinwood," he repeated as his mind began to make sense of his surroundings. The I Ching wands were strewn on the table in front of him—the hexagram of transformation no longer showing. Now he looked at her closely—his eyes finally beginning to focus, his mind now able to comprehend. The I Ching had worked—he felt different this time. It had worked at last. It was not a dream-state, as it was before. It was real this time—he felt it. It was _real_. He touched his arms—they were real. He ran his hand through his hair and smiled. It had worked.

"Rachel," he said, standing, and pulling Maggie up by her arms.

"No. I don't know anyone named Rachel. I'm Maggie—Maggie Evans." She wondered whether John was somehow in there too. If so, why didn't he recognize her?

An array of emotions crossed his face—disappointment, sadness, resignation, and finally, curiosity. "Maggie—you're Maggie Evans."

"Yes. Do you know me? Do you remember me?" Maggie's face was expectant.

"No … I'm not sure," he said, confused. Then he smiled at her. It was John's smile to be sure. "But I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Maggie. I'm Quentin—Quentin Collins."


	26. Chapter 26

AN: I've divided this, the penultimate, chapter into two parts because it turned out much longer than I'd anticipated. I've segmented it roughly in half to make it easier to read.

Part 1

At the Great House of the Collinwood estate, a day that began in uncharacteristic light and warmth has given way to an evening more typical of the enigmatic edifice—one that brings a mysterious new figure into the lives of the Collins family and the other inhabitants of the venerable estate.

Collinwood 1968

On that fateful afternoon at the Great House, one thing became clear to Dr. Julia Hoffman, her friend Barnabas Collins understood and communicated little of the power or the way of the I Ching before entrusting himself to it. She had watched Barnabas day after day in a deep, unrelenting trance state, without knowing any of the particulars of the I Ching's inner workings. As a result, she had no idea what to do when the I Ching delivered Quentin Collins to 1968.

Maggie, still in shock from seeing John Doe fade into nothingness, turned to Professor Stokes for advice and wisdom. While Julia kept watch over Quentin, Maggie made her way on shaky legs to call the occult expert. Given his almost encyclopedic knowledge of the occult, she hoped he would not disappoint her.

Her story poured out in a rush of words. She told him about John's strange ailment, and how she insisted on taking him to the west wing—and how, once there, John had literally disappeared and Quentin Collins emerged from the trance. Referring to the I Ching, she asked Professor Stokes, "What do you know about it?"

He told her, "I have a passing acquaintance with it. It is an ancient form of divination—a way of revealing one's own truth or path, or answering or resolving some issue or blockage in one's life. But no one is _truly_ knowledgeable about it, save for a handful of skilled practitioners. The rest of us merely dabble."

Yet, he knew enough to tell her that he believed that John Doe was an astral doppelganger of Quentin Collins. He speculated that either the astral being had a limited time in this dimension, or that he could not continue to exist in such close proximity to the corporeal Quentin Collins. Much to her frustration, he could not tell Maggie whether Quentin Collins would retain his doppelganger's memories.

"Some believe," he continued, "that each set of wands is imbued with the will of the individual who crafted them. Thus each set is unique and unpredictable. One can imagine the possibilities. If the craftsman was sensible, reliable, and responsible, the wands may lead to similar ends. But what if the craftsman was puckish or a trickster … or a indeed, a crafts _woman_ —the results might be very different indeed." He mused aloud, "Yes, I can imagine the possibilities. I'm sorry, my dear, if I've not supplied the answers you seek. In any case, this is a rare opportunity to learn more about the I Ching. I should very much like to examine the wands, and of course, meet Quentin Collins. I have so many questions I'd like to ask him."

* * *

At first, Maggie and Quentin circled one another warily.

From the moment he emerged, Maggie could see that Quentin was different from John. Though she couldn't name it, there was something in his eyes that had not been there before. As he looked around his rooms, it was clear that John's vulnerability was gone, replaced by self-assurance that bordered on cockiness. He was mercurial—changing from expressions of wonder to ones of despair with each passing moment. This, at least, Maggie chocked up to him having woken from a trance and discovering that 70 years had passed.

She had empathized with John, but now he was someone else. She no longer felt the same sense of connection with him. He was a _Collins_. She should have guessed as much. When he was John Doe, they were somehow more alike—bound by the common experience of losing one's sense of self, and identity.

For his part, Quentin could see the physical resemblance between Maggie and Rachel, but the resemblance was in features alone. Maggie's tone and manner of speech were so clipped, so blunt and direct; even the way she moved was at odds with his memory of Rachel. He'd watched as she left the room—moving so quickly and turning her head in a way that made her hair fly to and fro—to say nothing of the dress. She was exposed in a way he'd never seen Rachel, so he had no point of comparison as to their legs or bare shoulders. In his own time, he was a man who knew much of women, but here he found it discordant to see such exposure wedded to ordinary, daily life.

* * *

When Maggie returned and conveyed what little she'd learned from Professor Stokes, Julia took charge of the situation. There was much to be done before the rest of the family returned. First she proposed relocating Quentin to a guest bedroom adjacent to hers. He objected. "These are my rooms. Why can't I stay here?" He added, "Though I'm none too pleased about the addition of these walls," indicating the false structures that had concealed his existence for decades.

"The west wing has been closed and locked for years," Maggie told him. "No one is allowed to come here." To Julia, she added, "And now we know why."

"Yes," Julia responded.

"And yet, here you are," Quentin quipped.

"We wouldn't be were it not for you," Maggie told him sharply.

Julia intervened, "Let's continue this in the drawing room."

Quentin looked at his slightly disheveled appearance and said, "Fine, but I need to wash and put on fresh clothes."

Maggie looked at Julia. "We have a lot to do."

Julia was tasked with going to the Blue Whale and explaining to Ed that she and John Doe had made a significant breakthrough, and that he would be staying with her at Collinwood for the foreseeable future—which was the same as informing the entire town. She retrieved John's few belongings, which had been provided by the staff at Windcliff, and returned to the Great House.

* * *

It was two days after his astral and physical beings reunited that he was first able to bring all of his memories together. Under Julia's deft guidance he was able to remember emerging through the I Ching portal onto Peabody's farm. Later, he could remember all of John Doe's experiences, but it still felt as though they happened to someone else.

For her part, Julia had taken the opportunity to explore Quentin's memories from before he invoked the I Ching. She wanted to know what happened to Barnabas, how had he come to leave Quentin the note she found on the mantle of his room in the west wing. And in the end she learned a great deal, but not what troubled her the most—why Barnabas had yet to return from 1897.

After a few hypnotherapy sessions with Julia, Quentin grew impatient and restive. He had already grown tired of feeling as though someone else had inhabited his body. Though Julia counseled patience with the process, he told her he was not the patient type. In Julia, he found a worthy adversary—one who took his sarcasm and moodiness and handed it back to him. She, he found, was subject to neither his charms nor his biting temper. She told him flatly that she'd dealt with "tougher customers" than him. It was the start of rapprochement, then the therapeutic relationship, and finally friendship.

It was not so with Maggie. Maggie, he discovered from the start, was discomfited by his mere proximity. The accidental graze of her hand, or fixing her with his gaze would cause her cheeks to color. The first time it happened was the evening he'd come out of the trance. Julia had gone into Collinsport, leaving the two of them alone. He'd followed Maggie into the Great House kitchen, and watched as she made tea. She went to the cupboard, and when she turned back, he was there, close beside her. Her cheeks were aflame, as she took a retreating step away from him. He threw back his head and laughed. Her eyes flashed her annoyance, as she turned away and composed herself. He found he enjoyed inducing such a reaction.

In contrast to Julia, his wit and sharp tongue could provoke genuine anger and frustration in Maggie. She was quick with a rejoinder and sometimes her eyes were full of fury. Sometimes she'd go rigid with exasperation and he knew that his barbs hit their mark. Still, anything was preferable to her silent wariness. It was that that he sensed when she eyed him when she thought he wasn't looking.

It was only after his sessions with Julia that he began to understand Maggie better. It was only later when he could remember the thoughts and actions of his astral self—the so-called John Doe—that he understood that a nascent bond existed between them, one that was swept away when he emerged from the trance.

* * *

It was easy to understand how a man like Barnabas Collins could emerge from being entombed in 1795 into 1967 and immediately find his place in the world. He had used his status as a Collins and his supposed eccentricity to mask that he was a man out of his own time. He had meticulously restored the Old House to its original condition, eschewing modern conveniences and modern life in general. As a Collins, his eccentricity, his obsession with the past would be unquestioned, not only by the family, but also by the town—which is what it meant to be a Collins in _Collins_ port.

When Barnabas emerged in 1967, the portrait of his "ancestor" that hung in foyer of the Great House served as his calling card and introduction to the family. No one could deny that he was a Collins—namesake to the man in the portrait. All of which aided Barnabas in forever remaining a man out of step with time.

In stark contrast, when the I Ching thrust Quentin Collins into 1968, it left him marooned in a time that was not his own, with no plausible explanation to offer for his existence and no convenient portrait to establish his Collins bona fides. His fate was in the hands of two women and the unknown motives of the I Ching itself.

Carolyn had called to tell Maggie that she and Tony had gone away for the weekend, and to ask Maggie to cover for her if her mother called. Julia and Maggie were grateful for the few days they had before the residents of Collinwood returned home. It meant that they had time to craft an explanation for the existence of this new Collins "cousin."

It was Julia's idea to use Barnabas's long absence from Collinwood to their advantage. She would write a letter of introduction in Barnabas's hand. "We can say that the letter only just arrived. Had it arrived sooner, it might have helped their amnesiac John Doe remember who he was," Julia said. Further, Quentin could use his amnesia to cover any gaps in their story.

Maggie was saddened by hearing John referred to in the past tense, but she considered and began, "That might work for now, but what about when Barnabas returns?"

Julia and Quentin exchanged looks.

"What are you not telling me?" Maggie asked, wondering how Julia and Quentin could already share a secret after such a short acquaintance.

"Nothing bad," Julia replied. "Just that Barnabas may not return to Collinwood for quite some time."

"Oh," Maggie said softly.

"And when he does return, I'll explain the situation. I'm certain he'll want to help." There was an edge to Julia's voice.

"Of course," Maggie said reasonably, but her eyes betrayed her mistrust.

Later that evening after the three had shared a simple dinner of soup and sandwiches, they adjourned to the drawing room. Julia and Quentin each nursed a brandy while they talked through the points of what they planned to tell Elizabeth when she returned.

Maggie stood at the window, only half listening though she knew that getting their story straight was important. She was still wearing her blue sundress. At some point, though she couldn't say when she'd put her cardigan on, as the evening had grown cool. Earlier, the day was full of promise. It seemed ages ago that she'd been on the beach in the sun, enjoying a lovely afternoon. She and John were … but now …

"Maggie?" Julia's voice pulled her back into the drawing room.

Maggie turned away from the window. "Yes? You were saying?"

Julia looked puzzled by Maggie's behavior. "I was saying goodnight. It's been a long day, and I'm heading upstairs to bed." Noting that Maggie had not been paying attention, she added, "We can talk more about this tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Julia," Maggie said and turned back toward the window. She had misgivings about lying to Mrs. Stoddard. She knew it had to be done, but she was committing to looking her friends in the eye everyday and lying to them. That sort of thing might come easily to Julia, but it didn't for her.

She sensed his presence before she felt his hands on her arms. Quentin gently turned Maggie to face him, "What is it, Maggie? What's wrong?" He looked to her telltale cheeks, but she showed no sign of discomfort in his presence.

"I don't like lying to Mrs. Stoddard," she said flatly. "I'm happy here at Collinwood, and this job is important to me. I can't afford to lose it." She grew quiet. Her face was thoughtful, as she searched for something that had eluded her.

It seemed to him, in that moment, she was so like …

"Who's Rachel?" she asked out of the blue, as though she'd read his mind.

"Rachel?" It was his turn to feel discomfited. Even the sound of her name felt remote, as though someone else uttered it.

"Yes. When you first came out of the trance, you mistook me for someone named Rachel."

"Rachel is dead," he said bluntly. "She died not long before I entered the trance. She's buried at Eagle Hill cemetery." He realized all at once that Rachel and the others were long dead now.

"I'm sorry," Maggie said. It sounded inadequate given his demeanor.

He avoided her eyes and looked out of the window. "She died in my arms, right here in this room. And yes, you bear a passing resemblance to her—in features, at least," he added bitterly. He turned away and went to refill his glass of brandy. He sat in the armchair by the fireplace. Maggie joined him and sat opposite him on the couch. She was sorry she'd asked, as she'd clearly opened an old wound.

A long silence ensued before Maggie said, "It must be strange being here—the same, only very different—but Julia and I can help you." She stood. "Julia's right. It has been a long day." Then she hesitated. She wasn't sure she should leave him alone.

He settled the matter for her. "Don't worry, Maggie. I know the way to the guest room and I've nowhere else to go."

"We have to lock the west wing before the others get back," she observed, lest he think about returning to his familiar rooms.

He laughed. "I'm afraid you know me too well already. Goodnight, Maggie."

* * *

In the ensuing days, life at the Great House began to return to normal. Carolyn was the first to return. Julia and Quentin were sequestered in the library. Maggie was upstairs organizing the schoolroom when she heard the sound of a car on the drive outside. She went to the window and looked out. Tony gave Carolyn a hand out of the front seat of his low-slung car then retrieved her small overnight bag from the trunk. He set it on the ground beside her and took her in his arms. They shared a laugh and then a kiss that made Maggie feel uncomfortably like a voyeur. She turned away then and went downstairs to meet Carolyn in the foyer.

Carolyn, true to her nature, was thrilled to learn that the mysterious John Doe was actually a long-lost cousin. She was bubbling with questions about how and when and where he first remembered, but cared little for the practical implications. She wanted to know whether he planned to stay. The rest of the day was animated by Carolyn's enthusiasm and energy.

In contrast, the next morning Mrs. Johnson and her son, Harry, returned to the Great House. Harry had pulled the car up to servants' entrance to unload the pantry supplies along with their personal bags. So Mrs. Johnson entered through the kitchen and heard voices in the family dining room. She walked in, still carrying her handbag and wearing a coat that seemed too heavy for such a promising day, to find the four in residence having breakfast. It was little more than toast with butter and jam, and coffee, but it was sufficient for their needs. Carolyn was still peppering Quentin with questions; and he was responding, under Julia's watchful gaze—her eyes told him that caution was needed. Maggie pretended to peruse a magazine, but really listened closely to the friendly interrogation underway.

"Ahem," Mrs. Johnson said loudly. She stood in the doorway looking, to Maggie's eyes, like a character from a children's book, though she couldn't remember which one. "What's going on here?" she asked.

Carolyn answered, "You'll never guess—John is actually a long-lost Collins cousin. Mrs. Johnson, meet _Quentin_ Collins. Cousin Quentin, our housekeeper, Mrs. Johnson."

"Oh?" Mrs. Johnson responded in a suspicion-tinged voice. "Is he staying here? Does Mrs. Stoddard know about this? " she asked.

Julia said, "No, not yet, but she's expected back tomorrow. I'll tell her then."

Mrs. Johnson fixed her eyes on Quentin and said, "So, you got your memory back and realized you belong to the most prominent family in this part of Maine. That must be convenient."

"Mrs. Johnson!" Carolyn bristled and adopted the imperious mien of a true Collins. "You've been with us a long time—long enough to be treated like part of the family, but you're not. And until my mother or Uncle Roger returns, I've decided he's welcome to stay."

Maggie felt terrible for Mrs. Johnson. The color drained from the housekeeper's face at having received such a stinging rebuke in front of the others. Mrs. Johnson turned on her heel and fled through the dining room door.

"Oh dear, I handled that poorly," Carolyn said, rising to follow the housekeeper and restore peace.

Julia, Quentin, and Maggie sat in silence for a time then. Each absorbed in his or her reflections on the awkward scene they'd just witnessed. Then Harry, Mrs. Johnson's son appeared in the doorway. "What have we here?" he asked, eyes fixed on Maggie.

"No concern of yours, Harry," Julia responded bluntly. It was one thing, Julia thought, for Mrs. Johnson to pry into family matters, but her rodent-like son was something else altogether. "I believe you'll find your mother elsewhere," she said to dismiss him. He took the hint and skulked away.

"Who is that?" Quentin asked no one in particular.

It was Julia who responded. "The housekeeper's son Harry—part time errand boy, part time chauffeur, and full time irritant. He's only here because Mrs. Stoddard is a soft touch." Julia rose and looked at her watch. "I'll see you at 11:00 in the library," she said to Quentin.

She left, leaving Maggie and Quentin alone together at the small dining table. She could practically feel his eyes on her. She looked up and met his gaze. "I think he _likes_ you," he said.

"Who?"

"The housekeeper's son."

Her expression conveyed her distaste. She said, "No," she said. "I don't think so. Maybe in your time …"

He cut her off, " _Boys_ like that are the same in any time period. I can spot his type a mile off—jealous, venal, obsequious; he aspires to have better than he deserves—in his case, _you_." Maggie colored deeply. The whole conversation felt inappropriate and embarrassing. He marked her change in countenance with a smile and a brief chuckle. "I daresay, he's not your type," he observed with a raised eyebrow.

"And you think you know me so well after one day's acquaintance," she responded tartly, folding her arms across her chest.

He laughed, "My dear Maggie, I wouldn't condemn _any_ woman to a lifetime of that hell—and certainly not you."

For some reason, she wanted to argue the point, but how could she? She despised Harry Johnson, though she hated to admit that Quentin was right. She didn't know what came over her, but she couldn't suppress a giggle at the thought.

"So, what will you be doing this morning?" he asked. The change of subject was much to her relief.

"I've been organizing the schoolroom. Then I'll work on getting a few days ahead on lessons for the kids. What about you?"

He sighed and a wistful look came to his eyes. "I'll be getting reacquainted with the house and the grounds—seeing how things have changed and how they've stayed the same."

"Things will fall into place when the rest of the family returns," she said mostly to have something vaguely comforting to say.

He made a noncommittal noise in response. As they rose and left the dining room behind, he said, "Until later, Maggie." At the foyer, she headed upstairs and he exited through the front doors.

* * *

The following afternoon marked the return of Elizabeth Stoddard, her nephew David, and ward Amy, to the Great House. Carolyn had picked them up at the train station, and all the way back to the estate hinted about a big surprise awaiting them. Carolyn was ebullient as she inwardly focused on the novelty of having a handsome stranger join the family.

As they pulled up the drive to the house, Elizabeth asked one last time about Carolyn's surprise. Poor Amy, unbeknownst to Carolyn, harbored the hope that the surprise was the return of her brother, Chris. But Amy was to be disappointed, as she was so often by how life treated her.

"Hello," Carolyn called out as they entered the house. "We're back. Where is everyone?"

The doors to the drawing room opened. "We're in here," Maggie said. "Welcome back."

Amy ran to her and threw her arms around Maggie's waist. "Maggie," she squealed. "I missed you so much."

Maggie hugged her back. "I missed you too, Amy," she said patting the child's head affectionately.

"Where's the surprise?" Amy beamed.

"What?" Maggie asked in confusion.

The others had followed Amy into the drawing room.

Quentin rose from the armchair. He took in the others with his eyes. It was remarkable. It took all of his will not to run to Elizabeth Stoddard, embrace her, and call her Judith. Instead, he went to her, extended his hand, and said, "I'm Quentin Collins, your cousin." Then he turned to David, "You must be David. I've heard a great deal about you—both of you," he added to include Amy.

David was all excitement. "Really, how?" he asked.

"Why, from Maggie, of course," Quentin said. "She's told me quite a bit about the two of you."

He instantly endeared himself to David. And for his part, in David, he found young Jamison reborn. Similarly, in Amy, he saw Nora's suspicious eyes all over again—though he'd no idea what he'd done to inspire the girl's mistrust.

Amy looked up at Maggie. "I thought it might be Chris," she said softly, tears forming in her eyes.

Maggie hugged her tightly. "I'm so sorry, Amy." There was nothing more to say to make it better.

"It's my fault, I'm afraid," Carolyn confessed.

Quentin and Elizabeth stood awkwardly getting acquainted. She had many questions, which Quentin pledged to answer to the best of his ability. But for the moment, he told her that Barnabas's interest in family history had led to the discovery of a heretofore, unknown branch of the family. During his travels, Barnabas had sought him out and encouraged him to connect with his family at Collinwood. He had set out to do so, but something happened to intervene, leaving him with a case of traumatic amnesia. He told Elizabeth that Julia feared that he might never recall what befell him, but Barnabas's letter of introduction confirmed why he had traveled to Collinwood.

Elizabeth took it all in, expressing sympathy, but maintaining some distance and reserve. Later she would call Roger and ask him to return at once.

* * *

Now that the Great House was back to its normal level of activity, Julia preferred to meet with Quentin at the Old House. They had reached the limit of what could be learned through hypnosis. Quentin had been able to remember and integrate John Doe's memories and experiences and describe to Julia his own circumstances that led up to him entering the I Ching trance. But still Julia persisted. If Angelique had arrived in 1897 and cured Quentin of the werewolf curse, why had they not returned? And why, she secretly wanted to know, did Chris remain trapped in the form of a wolf? Quentin could provide no further insights, but Julia remained convinced that she had overlooked something important. So she continued to meet with Quentin and talk through his memories of 1897, Barnabas, and the curse. For his part, Quentin acutely felt what he owed Julia, as well as Maggie. So he went to the Old House and answered question after question, watching Julia pace and think.

Quentin had just returned to the Great House from having a "session" with Julia when he encountered a man in the foyer who could only be Roger Collins. He was taken aback for a moment by the striking resemblance Roger bore to his own brother, Edward. He was impeccably dressed in the fashion of the time, marking himself as a man of wealth, position, and taste.

"Ah, here you are," Roger began, extending his hand. "You must be my cousin, Quentin."

Quentin shook the proffered hand, saying, "And you must be Roger. A pleasure to meet you."

"Come—join me in the library," Roger said in way remarkably reminiscent of Edward. He followed Roger into the library. Once there, Roger took a seat at the desk. Quentin took a seat across from him. Roger opened the bottom desk drawer and retrieved a small bottle of whisky and two glasses. He poured two fingers into each glass and offered one to Quentin. "Cheers," Roger said, lifting the glass to his new acquaintance. They each drank. Then Roger said, "So, another long-lost Collins has come back to the fold."

"Roger," Quentin began, preparing to deliver a well-rehearsed explanation.

But Roger held up his hand, "There's something I'd like to show you," he said. He ambled over to a painting of an 18th century sailing ship that hung on the wall. The painting opened out into the room to reveal a wall safe behind it. In a moment, the safe was open and Roger returned with stack of small volumes. He placed them on the desk and resumed his seat.

Quentin gave him a puzzled look. "I don't understand."

"No," Roger said gravely, "I don't suppose you do. There is a tradition in our family—one known to only a few. Each generation, the family patriarch—usually the eldest son—is charged with writing a true and complete history of the Collins family during his lifetime. There are plenty of official histories here," he gestured to the shelves around them, "and in Collinsport, but none of them is true and complete. Some have been expunged of any bad deeds or family scandals. In others, the undesirable have been crudely redacted by means of a razor blade. But these," he laid his hand on the volumes, "these are the true histories. It is a charge that has been handed down from generation to generation, beginning with Joshua Collins, continuously to me, and I, in turn, will charge my son David with doing the same. So when Elizabeth told me that another cousin had surfaced, it was to these that I turned," he said indicating the books. "Would you like to know what I found?"

"Please," Quentin said, drawing a deep inhale.

Roger opened the thin volume on top. He had bookmarked one of the pages. He turned to it and showed it to Quentin. A primitive photograph of him as a young man was affixed to a page. He remembered the day it was taken in Boston—a novelty arranged by his grandmother, Edith. Roger continued, "Your namesake—the original Quentin Collins. The likeness is remarkable. His brother Edward chronicled his life. He was the black sheep of the family, I'm afraid—a notorious womanizer who dabbled in the black arts."

"What became of him?" Quentin asked.

"He left Collinwood one day, without a word to anyone, and never returned." They sat in silence for a moment as each sipped his drink. Then Roger resumed, "I suspect that you are his direct descendant. I should very much like to hear more about how Barnabas came to meet you, but I understand that that will have to wait until Barnabas returns. I look forward to getting better acquainted, but I've been away from the estate for too long. I have a great deal of catching up to do with the businesses and my son. Perhaps, we can speak again later this evening or tomorrow." Roger rose and Quentin followed suit. "In the meantime, welcome to Collinwood. Now that you've found your way back to our ancestral home, I hope you'll come to think of it as your home too."

"Thank you, Roger." Quentin was genuinely touched by such a welcome. The two shook on it and then Roger took his leave.

* * *

One weekend not long after Roger's return, Maggie drove Quentin to Bangor. She was surprised by the extent to which Quentin and Roger had taken to one another. Whether it was because Quentin was a Collins or they had found some other affinity, the two were spending a great deal of time together. Roger had taken Quentin to tour the cannery and the mill, as well as the estate. Perhaps, it was simply that Roger enjoyed male companionship of the sort that Barnabas had never provided.

Barnabas seemed to prefer the companionship of the women of the estate—be it Julia, Elizabeth, or Vicky during her time there. Barnabas with his eccentricities and obsession with the past was poor company for a man like Roger, charged with ensuring the family's—indeed the town's—livelihood and future. Quentin, on the other hand, had always enjoyed the benefits of masculine life and found that many such benefits endured in 1968. So he was content to allow Roger to act as an unwitting guide to many of the changes that had taken place in the family businesses and in Collinsport since 1897. And thus an unlikely (or so it seemed to Maggie) friendship was forged.

Roger had asked Quentin to "show the Collins family flag" at the mill while Roger was away attending to business in Boston. Roger had taken him to his personal tailor in Bangor and insisted on paying for his new clothes as a kind of down payment on his work at the mill. After all, Roger told him, "A Collins can't go about dressed in clothing provided by the local asylum—you must dress like a Collins."

Maggie had offered to drive Quentin on his return visit to pick up his new suits. On the road to Bangor, Quentin had been in an expansive mood—by turns sharing the details of the time he'd spent with Roger, and making observations about the world around him. His wonder about life in 1968 had evolved first to curiosity and then to appreciation. Everywhere he looked there was change—both superficial and profound. The world had evolved. And though a part of him would forever belong to 1897, until and unless the I Ching sent him back, he was a man of this world now, and he must learn to navigate it as best he could.

On the drive, Maggie listened to him with evident interest and amusement. From time to time, a smile graced her lips. Once at the tailor's shop, she convinced him to pick out a couple of casual outfits as well as the tailored suits. She and the tailor had helped him to select some casual slacks and sports-coats, a turtleneck sweater, and a couple of knit shirts that were not terribly different from those he was given at Windcliff, though clearly of higher quality—no doubt more costly as well. And although he did not believe the more casual attire suited him, both Maggie and the tailor assured him it did. After exiting the shop, Maggie pointedly told him that in his casual clothes, he would fit in more easily in 1968, as everyone dressed more casually now.

Then they had lunch at a coffee shop before making the return trip to the estate. They slid into a booth with dark green vinyl upholstery. The waitress gave Quentin an admiring look as she handed him a menu. She offered Maggie a knowing smile with her menu. Maggie sighed.

"Is something wrong?" he asked solicitously.

"No, nothing," she said, hiding a wry smile behind the menu.

"So, what sounds good to you?" he asked.

Later, as they ate, Maggie noticed that Quentin was in a good mood—ebullient even. He was still amazed by the world around him, especially the speed with which it moved. Although she knew what he meant, Maggie couldn't resist saying, "Yes, Roger seems to have taken to you immediately."

"I doubt that he would had he known that I am the black sheep himself—not just his descendant."

For some reason, Maggie felt compelled to take up for Roger. "You should give him more credit. He's capable of drawing his own conclusions based on your behavior."

He looked at her narrowly. "Perhaps. He looks so much like my brother Edward—like my brother _did_ ," he clarified. "But then, he's so different in demeanor—so much more open and welcoming. In truth, Maggie, it's like having the brother I longer for, but never had in Edward. It helps that I haven't run off with his wife—at least, not yet." He briefly recounted some of the acts that earned him his reputation as the black sheep—Laura, his marriage to Jenny, and his self-indulgent treatment of Beth. He carefully expunged Rachel, and the werewolf and its attendant crimes, from his narrative.

If she was shocked, she didn't show it. "It's a kind of fresh start for you," Maggie said. He turned his gaze out the window, and said nothing. She continued, "You're lucky. How many people get the chance to put their past behind them, wipe the slate clean, and begin again?"

"Yes, but it comes with a price too—never to see your family again. Edward, no doubt, is— _was_ —fine with never seeing me again, but Judith and Jamison—they believed I left without even saying goodbye. That was never my intention. I never realized how much it matters to me that they know how I felt about them—that I never meant to leave without a word of goodbye," he told her wistfully.

Maggie instantly regretted the direction the conversation had taken. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to … well, you know."

He turned back to meet her gaze. "When I picked up the wands I never imagined they would lead me here. I thought I would go back, right a wrong, and then things would go on as before."

Maggie wasn't sure what to say. Though she longed to understand what drove him to the I Ching, she settled weakly on, "I see."

He continued, "I don't know what my place will be in this world, Maggie. And no one can help me with that—not you, not Julia, not Roger."

She bit back the need to try to make him feel better, or to tell him it would all come right in the end—though she believed it would. She knew from experience that some things you had to figure out for yourself.


	27. Chapter 27

Part 2

Julia rose early, as was her habit. She made her way to the Old House, where she kept the food and water that she took to the mausoleum daily. She had domesticated a wild animal—one that she kept penned up in a small, dark box. She'd given up hope of ever releasing it back into the wild.

As she did each day, she parked her car on the access lane to the cemetery then made her way through the woods to the mausoleum. She would open the secret room, and most days the wolf would look at her through Chris's eyes, too weak and broken to protest. It— _he_ —would never eat or drink in front of her—no matter how hungry or thirsty. If she thought about it too much, she herself would join the ranks of the clinically depressed. So instead she focused narrowly on doing what she could to keep the creature alive until … until what? Until Barnabas returned with the answers they sought.

When she arrived, she set the food and water to one side, pulled the ring in the lion's mouth, and door slowly slid open. As always, she held Barnabas's cane in her hand, just in case it was the day that the wolf decided to charge her.

The light was dim as it always was at this time of morning. "I brought your food and water," she said, peeking in as she always did.

It made a guttural noise and charged at her feebly. "Chris?" He fell to his knees in front her.

"Dr. Hoffman?" he said in a weak but human voice.

"Chris! You're back!"

"I … I" he struggled to find words.

Julia beamed. "He did it! Barnabas did it. He freed you from the curse."

"I don't understand," he said.

"It doesn't matter now. I'll explain everything later."

Julia looked him and took stock of his condition. He was filthy—and emaciated. "Let's get you back to the Old House. You can get cleaned up, get your strength back."

He tried to get to his feet and found his legs weak and shaky.

"The car's not far. Do you think you can make it?" She took him by the arm and pulled him to his feet.

Together, they slowly made their way, first to her car, and then to the Old House.

"What's the last thing that you remember?" she asked him as she helped him down the lane.

"The night of the full moon, and Barnabas locking me in the secret room of the mausoleum—where you just found me," he said in a confused and frustrated tone.

"Chris, that was weeks and weeks ago— _many weeks ago_."

"That can't be Dr. Hoffman," he said emphatically.

They struggled on through the woods in silence, save for the ragged breathing of each. Chris was so weak that he had to lean heavily on Julia as they walked. When they reached her car, Julia helped Chris into the front seat. "What about Amy? … And Carolyn?" he asked. "What do they think happened to me?"

"They think you left town," she said flatly.

"And you said nothing to disabuse them of that idea?" he said angrily.

"And what should I have told them, Chris?" she responded in kind. "That you didn't transform back into a human? That you were trapped in your werewolf state?"

"I'm sorry Dr. Hoffman. I didn't mean to …" his voice drifted off as he turned his face to the window. He gathered himself. "I have to go see them. I have to explain."

Julia said, "You can't go see them in this state. You can get cleaned up, get some rest and a decent meal at the Old House. Then you can decide what to do next. I'll get you settled in then I'll go to the cottage and pick up some of your things. You can borrow something of Willie's in the meantime," she concluded, as they pulled up the drive adjacent to the Old House.

"Thank you Dr. Hoffman. I didn't mean to snap at you like that. It's just … my life is a mess. The last thing I want is for Amy and Carolyn to think I left without a word and that I don't care."

In the course of the next week, Julia devoted herself to nursing Chris back to health. She had brought his clothes and personal items from the cottage to the Old House. His clothes hung on his now emaciated physique. And never had she been more frustrated with Barnabas's obsession with retaining the Old House in its 18th century condition than she was now, as she tried to provide for Chris's needs in a house ill-suited to comfort or practicality. Still it was too soon for him to return to the cottage.

When she thought he was well enough to hear it, she had filled him in on the details of life in his absence—that Amy had settled into life at the Great House and that Mrs. Stoddard treated her as one of their own; and that Carolyn and Tony Peterson had reconciled and were spending a great deal of time together. Finally, she told him that Barnabas had left in search of a cure to the werewolf curse, but had not returned. Instead, a new Collins cousin, Quentin, had taken his place.

His resigned silence had puzzled her. "What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said. "But thank you. I can't thank you enough, Dr. Hoffman, for everything you've done for me. I almost feel like my old self again," he told her.

"Well," she said, "You've a way to go yet, but you're recovering well. And don't you think it's time you started calling me Julia?"

"Thank you, _Julia_."

As a psychiatrist, it should have come as no surprise to her when she arrived at the Old House the following day and found he'd gone. There was a note on the mantle in the drawing room addressed to "Julia", explaining the reasons for his departure. Julia read it then crumpled the note. She shook her head. For Chris, the werewolf curse was ended, but one of self-reproach and regret had taken its place.

* * *

Though it was impossible to explain, Quentin found the Great House, in spite of its size, began to feel confining. He felt restless, pacing his small guest room. Even going downstairs to the drawing room offered no relief. He didn't know why—all he knew for certain was he needed to get out. He headed across the foyer. Just as he reached the front door, it opened to reveal Maggie returning to the house.

"Quentin," she beamed a smile in greeting. "Heading out?" she asked.

"I'm going to the Blue Whale for a drink." His tone was clipped, though she failed to mark it as such.

"Would you like a ride?" she offered. "I'd be happy to drive you there."

"If I want something, I'll ask. I don't need you to drive me around, Maggie." Now there was no mistaking his tone. "I'm quite capable of walking there."

For an instant she wore her hurt feelings on her face. But she said simply, "Of course. My mistake," she added, as he roughly brushed past her and headed out the door.

Quentin stood just outside for a moment, wondering why he'd been so unnecessarily harsh. He turned back into the foyer, "Maggie," he called out to her as she reached the landing of the staircase, but if she heard him, she didn't turn back or answer. She took a few quick steps and headed down the hall.

He knew he should go after her, but instead he stalked out of the house into the night. He eschewed the familiar path that led to the main Collinsport Road. Instead, he veered off into the woods and took a circuitous route, adding welcome but unnecessary time before arriving at the main road. The floor of the woods was, as always, littered with dying leaves and twigs. His heavy footfall unconsciously made each bit of ground pay for some undefined transgression.

In the end, he'd circled back to the Collinsport road, joining it at a point more distant from town than the Collinwood drive would have been. He would have been content to go into town on foot, taking in the evening air and working out whatever demons led him to snap at Maggie, but it was not to be. As he walked, a car pulled up along side of him. "Heading into town?"

 _As if I could be heading anywhere else on this road_ , Quentin thought. But looking up and seeing it was Sheriff Patterson, he said, "I find myself missing the Blue Whale."

"I'm heading there myself," the sheriff said genially. "Care for a lift? Hop in." Quentin got in and the sheriff pulled back onto the road. "So," Sheriff Patterson said, "You're a Collins."

"Yes," Quentin answered ruefully.

"My deputy feels really sorry about how he treated you," the sheriff observed with a smile.

Quentin laughed. It was the first time that evening that he found something pleasurable. "I can imagine," he said expansively. "What did he call me?" Quentin asked, searching his memory for the words that had little meaning to him at the time.

"Dirty hippy, I believe, though I shouldn't be reminding you," Sheriff Patterson said. He went on, "He didn't mean anything by it. He just gets a little overzealous is all. To tell you the truth, he's my wife's nephew. I guess that makes him my nephew too. His parents were worried he wouldn't amount to anything without a little guidance. So I took him under my wing, so to speak. And I think he'll turn out to be a fine sheriff someday. He just needs a little tempering."

Quentin heard the sheriff's words, but his mind had drifted back to the day he first encountered the sheriff and his deputy. It seemed as though it happened to someone else—and it was hard to make sense of feelings and memories that belonged to both him and another version of him. As he tuned more fully into what the sheriff was saying between the lines, he realized the sheriff was concerned that now that he was a Collins, there might be retribution for his deputy's actions. He said, "Think no more of it, Sheriff Patterson. It's in the past."

"Very generous of you, Mr. Collins," the sheriff said as he pulled to a stop across the street from the Blue Whale.

"Care to join me for a drink?" Quentin asked.

Once inside the local tavern, Quentin went to the bar. He offered his hand to the proprietor, his former landlord, Ed. "We've not seen you since you discovered you're a Collins," Ed said in a matter of fact tone.

"No," Quentin responded. "Things have been happening very fast. Thank you for helping me out when you didn't know who I am," he said.

"I did it as a favor to Dr. Hoffman. Nothing more. But, you're welcome just the same. What can I get you?"

"A brandy for me, and Sheriff Patterson's usual." When Ed returned with the brandy and draught beer, Quentin said, "I guess I should open a tab."

"Why don't you put it on Roger's tab?" Ed said.

"Roger runs a tab here?" Quentin was incredulous.

"Yep. He rarely makes use of it, but Carolyn uses it plenty," he replied with a smile.

Quentin took the drinks and rejoined the sheriff. The sheriff, he found, was a fount of local knowledge, to say nothing of gossip. He was at once forthcoming and circumspect—a difficult balance to strike. Quentin tried to squirrel away pieces of information about the town—his new home—and its denizens, but he could only retain so much—the rest was just a colorful backdrop. They spent a companionable hour. Then Sheriff Patterson announced that it was time he was heading home—his wife would be waiting. He offered Quentin a ride back to the estate, but Quentin declined preferring to walk instead. He was struck that after so many years, it still meant something to be a Collins in Collinsport.

When he reached the junction to the Collinwood drive, his thoughts turned. Now he worried about having to face Maggie again. He'd have to apologize to her. That much was clear. But what wasn't clear was how he he'd explain why he'd behaved that way. Although it wasn't fair to her, he hated feeling dependent on her— _needing_ her help. It was different with Julia. She'd been his doctor and helped him as he recovered.

He would have readily accepted _Rachel's_ help, he told himself. But Maggie was not Rachel—and each time he looked at her, he was reminded of that. Maggie was pert and modern, and outpaced his knowledge and experience of the world in which he found himself. He found it at once intimidating and exciting. He looked forward to seeing her and spending time with her. And yet, he felt uncertain where she was concerned. With Rachel he'd found an easy, natural affinity. Rachel's layers unfolded over time through their acquaintance.

With Maggie, it was different. She was so forthcoming—direct and honest in a way that characterized life in 1968. She had helped him too—in ways too numerous to recount. She knew and kept his secret everyday. She helped smooth his way in this time; giving him subtle hints and cues in conversations; communicating with her eyes when he strayed into matters best left alone; and offering brief primers on expectations and mores of the time. Sometimes, she'd rib him about an old fashioned or outdated idea—reminding him that he had much to learn about his new life.

And more—the I Ching had brought him to this time and place—to _her_. There must be a reason. As he pondered this, the edifice of the Great House emerged before him. He was almost home.

It was then that he registered for the first time that a full moon had risen into the evening sky. He wondered how he'd failed to notice it before. He realized all at once that Magda's curse endured across the decades, still casting a long shadow over his new life—something of the wolf—its restlessness, its aggression—still endured inside of him.

* * *

Maggie had found herself at loose ends that evening. Roger had wanted to spend time with David, and by extension with Amy as well, lest she feel left out. So he had joined them in playing board games in the library after dinner. Maggie had taken the rare opportunity of an evening to herself to stroll to the gazebo and watch the moonrise. She fought off the urge to give in and acknowledge her loneliness. There were plenty of things to keep her occupied. Usually, she'd be the one playing games with the children until bedtime. Or she and Carolyn might go into town, although increasingly Carolyn was spending time with Tony. It was moments like these when Maggie became aware that being occupied was not the same as being content.

And then there was her growing friendship with Quentin. When he first emerged from the trance, he turned to her for so many things. He was a bit adrift in 1968, and she could help him understand, and even fit in. But now as he became more a part of the family, he moved more into their sphere and away from hers. It was subtle at first, but definite. And she could hardly blame him. If she suddenly found she belonged to a prominent and wealthy family that welcomed her with open arms, she too would gravitate toward them—it was only natural.

At that moment, she felt her losses acutely. If Pop were alive, he would tell her to buck up and stop feeling sorry for herself. If her father were alive, she probably wouldn't be here now. She sighed aloud and headed back to the house.

She opened the front door of the Great House and was startled to find Quentin on his way out. She'd been genuinely pleased to see him though. "Quentin. Heading out?"

"I'm going to the Blue Whale for a drink," he'd told her.

"Would you like a ride? I'd be happy to drive you there," she'd offered lightly.

"If I want something, I'll ask. I don't need you to drive me around, Maggie. I'm quite capable of walking there."

She felt the flush of embarrassment. "Of course. My mistake." She hadn't meant to presume, but somehow she'd offended him and his cold rebuff stung bitterly. And he'd practically pushed her aside on his way out the door—he was clearly upset or irritated. But why, she couldn't say. She'd tried to put a brave face on as she returned to her room. She willed herself to walk, albeit purposefully, up the stairs. She would pretend that the sound of her name trailing after her was out of earshot.

Once in the privacy of her room, she closed the door and leaned against it. She bit back the tears that threaten to overtake her. She stood like that for a long time before she was able to heed her father's voice in her mind. She was stronger than that. After all, he was a Collins and owed her nothing. She resolved to keep her distance going forward.

It was early yet, but she put on her nighty, and curled up in bed with a copy of _Jane Eyre_ that was a part of his mother's small legacy. It was a lovely hardbound edition. She'd read it before of course, but it suited her mood of late. So in rereading it, she found a safe, comfortable place that reminded her of the cottage she shared with her father and of a happier time in her life, when a younger, more innocent version of herself would curl up on the couch in their cottage with that very book.

Maggie got out of bed and went to the mirror of her vanity. She looked at the reflection of herself. It looked like her, but wore an old fashioned dress that could only be a wedding dress. She smiled and her hand went to a broach at the throat of the ivory lace dress. Then her reflection disappeared—faded to black and like the end of an old movie—she was gone.

Maggie woke with a start to the sound of gentle knocking on her door. The book lay beside her on the bed. She tiptoed in bare feet to her bedroom door, "Hello?" she said in a soft, sleepy voice.

"Maggie—it's me. I need to speak with you."

"Quentin? What time is it?" she asked turning to look at the clock. It was not quite 10:00.

"I need to speak with you," he repeated in a loud whisper. "May I come in?"

Maggie opened the door a mere sliver. "What is it? What do you want?" she asked, sounding a bit put out.

"May I come in? Just for a moment," he added.

"It's probably best that you not come in," she started to explain, but he was already gently pushing the door open. He angled his way in through the small opening. She sighed and took a step back, reluctantly allowing him admittance. He stepped in and closed the door behind him. "Please be sure that no one sees you when you leave. That's the last thing I need right now," she said in a cross tone. "So?" she added impatiently.

"I owe you an apology," he began sheepishly, with a charming yet contrite expression.

"No, you don't—not really," she said, but her tone belied her words. She folded her arms across her chest, and wondered for the briefest moment whether her hair was a mess. She freed one hand just long enough to rake her fingers through her hair and drape it over her shoulder.

"Maggie," he said. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. He met with no resistance when he gently unfolded her arms and held her hands in his. "I don't know what came over me earlier. I felt like a caged animal. It was like some shadow from my past had a hold of me. I needed desperately to get out, but I hurt your feelings in the process and I'm sorry."

She gently extricated her hands from his. "I get it you're a Collins and I'm the help, so you can behave however you please. You should go," she said, peevishness setting in.

"I will, but only if you say you forgive me," he said in a clearly oft-used, buttery tone.

"Is this how you've always gone through life?" she asked irritably. "Treating people badly, and then charming your way out of it?"

Her words hit home with force. He turned away to hide the shame that pricked him. When he turned back to face her, he found some depth of sincerity and said, "I'm truly sorry, Maggie. I never meant to hurt your feelings. Of course, you aren't just the help. You've been a good friend to me, Maggie. I don't take that for granted."

She sighed, but said, "I accept your apology. Now will you please leave?"

"Thank you, Maggie." He took her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. Then he opened the door a hair and peeked out. Seeing no one, he slipped out and softly closed the door behind him.

Perhaps she'd been too hard on him, she thought once he'd gone. And yet, it was important to her that he know that she was no pushover. For too long, too many people saw her as weak, soft, and vulnerable. _Well—no longer_ , she thought.

Maggie slid back into bed, picked up her book, and found where she'd left off. And though she turned the pages mechanically, and her eyes took in the words, her mind was pulled again and again back to the confounding Quentin Collins.

* * *

The next morning, Quentin asked Roger if he could move into one of the cottages elsewhere on the estate.

* * *

Several days later, one late afternoon, Maggie put on her spring mackintosh and headed out of the Great House. She followed the drive for a while before cutting through the woods and then picking up the path that followed the outline of the bluffs. The breeze coming off of the ocean was steady but not daunting. The sun was low in the sky but there was still plenty of daylight ahead.

The estate was the perfect place for an unstructured ramble. She had no specific destination in mind or direction to follow—just the desire to be outdoors and away from the confines of the house. It was a simple, but appreciated treat.

She reached a small overlook where the path widened and reached back to the edge of the woods. She stooped and felt the ground. Finding it dry after the unusually warm spring, she sat and looked out at the sea. The clearing was small but large enough to make it one of the spots where her father liked to set up his easel to paint. She remembered the time he'd returned with a painting he'd done on this very spot—the view was unmistakable. He'd been so proud of it. Later that evening he went to the Blue Whale. He returned blind drunk, and against all of her protests to be reasonable, proceeded to cover his latest seascape with white primer. The next day after he'd slept it off, he was equal parts embarrassment and remorse. She should have known then that something was amiss.

Now she wondered why lately she seemed to seek out places so evocative of her dad and the life they shared before he died. It was natural she supposed; it hadn't been that long since his death. She knew she could speak to Julia about these emergent feelings. But that would make her feel weak, like the Maggie Evans that half of Collinsport believed her to be—vulnerable and damaged. She wasn't that Maggie Evans anymore, and she hoped never to be again. She could work it out on her own.

She stood and brushed the sandy soil from her bottom. The snap of a twig behind her told her she was not alone. She turned. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Quentin stood smiling and looking at her in a way that made her wonder how long he'd been standing there.

"You could, but I asked you first," she said in a tone that sounded more petulant than she'd intended, and as though she spent too much time with David and Amy, and not enough with other adults. She sighed and quickly regrouped. "I'm just out for a walk," she explained.

"And where are David and Amy this afternoon?" he inquired.

"Making cookies with Mrs. Johnson. It seems they've established a new tradition. She complains about having them underfoot, but she keeps inviting them to join her. Anyway, it seemed to me to be the perfect time to get out of the house—get some fresh air and stretch my legs. I walked farther than I intended," she said, thinking aloud. "And you? What brings you out here?" A gusty breeze swept over them, causing Maggie's hair to fan out around her face.

"I could lie and say the same as you—just out for a walk, but the truth is that I saw you from the window of the cottage. I thought I'd come join you, if you don't mind that is."

"I don't mind, but I should be getting back," she said turning back toward the path.

"May I escort you home?" he asked in tone befitting a man of the late 19th century.

Maggie drew a deep breath. He was certainly charming, when he chose to be. "Of course," she said simply.

They walked in silence for a while before he said, "Maybe my cousin Elizabeth will invite me to stay for dinner."

Maggie laughed. "Missing the Great House already?" she asked. "I thought you coveted your privacy. Isn't that why you moved into the cottage?"

Maggie was taken aback by the sudden change in his affect and demeanor. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets; the stiff breeze ruffled the labels of his sport-coat. He grew quite serious, and began, "My brother Edward described me as the black sheep of the family. And if I'm honest, I deserved it. I never really fit in, and I never wanted to. Edward ran the businesses and my sister Judith ran the estate. There was no place for me. So I was content to charm my grandmother or my sister or whomever else I needed to in order to get my own way. I was impulsive and reckless, and I hurt a lot of people—not always intentionally, but people were hurt nonetheless. I've made a great many mistakes in my life, Maggie. But I've paid dearly for them."

"I don't understand. Why are you telling me this?" She kept her eyes on the path ahead, not wanting to make eye contact with him, lest she invite the return of the charming, but more superficial Quentin.

"Because I want you to know who I am—who I _really_ am. The night of the full moon—my temper—is just a taste of what I'm capable of."

"I don't believe that," Maggie said in a tone that neither found convincing.

"You should. I don't want to…" _use you when it suits me, or pick you up and put you down as Beth once accused me of doing_ … "hurt you, Maggie. That's why I moved into the cottage. I don't want to repeat my past mistakes."

Her eyebrows drew together. "I don't understand what you're getting at, Quentin."

The image of the I Ching wands came unbidden to his mind. The hexagram of transformation had brought him to this moment, to this place, to this woman …

Fueled by confusion and discomfiture, Maggie maintained a swift, steady pace along the path. Quentin kept pace beside her with his longer, easy strides. Soon they reached the fork that led back toward the Great House. They emerged from the woods to the side of the house.

"Before we go in, there's something I need to ask you," Quentin said, taking her by the arm and leading her to the gazebo. He searched her face, as though preemptively looking for an answer.

"What is it? What's wrong?" she asked in concern.

"Will you go out with me Friday night?" he asked. The handsome, charming man with the intense eyes had returned—the brooding enigma receding into the background.

"What?" she asked, "like a date?"

"Yes, I suppose so. We can do anything you like—go to the cinema, or dinner at the Inn," he laughed and added, "If Roger runs a tab there."

She hesitated and gently nibbled her bottom lip before answering. He was so mercurial, it made her head spin. He was moody and intense one moment, silky smooth and winning the next—he was trouble. She could almost hear Pop's voice saying exactly that.

"What time should I pick you up?" she asked.

* * *

A few weeks later, Julia encountered Quentin just as she was preparing to leave the Old House and return to the Great House. She opened the door and she found him on the doorstep, hand poised to knock.

"Quentin, what are you doing here?" she asked.

"Looking for you. I'm hoping to have a word with you."

"Oh?" she eyed him narrowly. "I was just on my way back to the Great House, but we could …" she gestured toward the door of the estate's original house.

"No need," he said. "Perhaps I can accompany you and we can talk on the way."

"Of course," she said and set about latching the Old House's archaic lock. Then she turned toward the well-trod lane and asked Quentin, "So, what's on your mind?"

"Maggie." He fell in step beside her.

"Oh? What about Maggie?" The doctor slowed her step and looked at her companion.

"You know we've been seeing each other," he began.

"Yes. The Great House is big, but not so much so that I failed to notice _that,_ " Julia responded.

"I want your advice, Julia." A pregnant pause followed. "Should I tell her? About me … what I was … what I did … what still haunts me."

"About the werewolf curse?" Julia murmured in response, half to Quentin, half to herself—the wheels already turning in her mind.

"Yes. Now that another full moon has passed, I feel certain that curse has been lifted. And yet, I still feel the wolf within … affecting my mood, my behavior."

"Quentin, there are techniques that I can teach you. I'm a psychiatrist. It's what we do," Julia told him in a tone that bordered on boasting.

"Thank you, Julia. I believe I'll take you up on that. But you didn't answer my question. Should I tell Maggie?"

"If you're asking me as a psychiatrist—even though I don't specialize in these sorts of matters—I'd say that honesty is important in a relationship. But if you're asking as a _friend_ , I'd say, to what end? What purpose will it serve? Maggie has been through a lot. Now that the curse is lifted and that version of you is in the past, I say let it remain there."

"I'm sure you're right," he said, though his doubt remained.

"Quentin, I recognize that tone. If you think that by telling her you'll achieve some form of expiation, trust me—you won't. The I Ching has given you a chance that few people are given—the chance to begin anew. Embrace it. Don't look back." Thus was the advice of a psychiatrist, friend, and above all, a denizen of the Collinwood estate.


	28. Chapter 28

Epilogue

The great estate of Collinwood casts a long shadow that spans from the Old House to the Great House to the edge of town. It encompasses woods, a cemetery, unused farms, and bluffs above the unrelenting and sometimes treacherous sea. Beyond its great mansions, the estate is dotted with cottages and homes that speak of the eminence of the Collins family who settled the area, and built the town and the businesses that were its lifeblood.

The great estate stood through the ages, through generation after generation, as a testament to the endurance of the Collins family. Each generation served as guardian to the secrets of those that preceded it, just as each generation amassed its own clandestine history for its descendants to protect. It was tacitly the Collins way.

Collinwood 1969

Maggie felt a chill ripple through her. She turned over and sighed. It was as predictable as the tides. She put her peignoir over her baby-doll nightgown and quietly crept downstairs.

* * *

Collinwood 1968

Maggie Evans's life reached a crossroads on a day remarkable only for how ordinary it was.

"Quentin, pull over. Please stop the car," she said urgently.

He did as she asked, and pulled the car to the side of narrow drive, and killed the engine. "What is it, Maggie? What's wrong?"

"You were driving way too fast," she told him in a worried voice. She got out of the car and folded her arms across her chest. He followed her and stood next to her.

"You said that I had to follow the speed limits on the main road. You didn't say anything about speed limits on private lanes, and there are no signs." He offered her a charming and disingenuous smile.

She sighed, "Maybe this isn't a good idea."

"What?" He moved and stood in front of her, searching her face.

"Maybe someone else should teach you to drive," she told him. "Maybe someone who isn't …"

"Isn't what?"

"Well, you know," she dissembled.

"Tell me."

"Someone you're not dating," she finally said.

" _Dating_?" he repeated. "You know, Maggie," he said with an edge in his voice, "I don't want to waste anymore time _dating_."

"Quentin, where is this coming from? What are you saying? Are you … are you breaking up with me?"

Seeing the hurt and worry that suffused her face, he gently unfolded her arms, and took her hands in his. "No, Maggie. I'm asking you to marry me—maybe not in the right way, but will you? Will you marry me, Maggie?"

Maggie felt her face grow pale with shock. "Quentin, I … I …" She wasn't sure what to tell him.

He looked crestfallen. "I love you, Maggie. Maybe I misread the signals, but I thought you loved me too."

"I do," she said flatly, but added, "I … I think I just need a day or two to think it over."

"I was going to ask Carolyn for advice on how to ask you and then do it after our date on Friday night, but what we share is so much deeper than just _dating_. I realized I didn't want to wait another minute to let you know how I feel and what I want."

"Oh, Quentin. It's not how you asked. It isn't that," she told him squeezing his hands to communicate reassurance.

"I know I'm not an easy man, Maggie. Sometimes the darkness overtakes me, and I …" he began. "But the one constant is that I love you. I promise I'll never do anything to hurt you. I'll never let that darkness touch you. It's you that brings me back into the light."

"I'm not afraid of your dark moods, Quentin. I understand them better than most women would. It isn't that."

"Well, what then?" he asked in desperation.

"I'm not saying no," she told him in an impassioned voice. "It's just that you took me by surprise—that's all. I just need a little time."

"How much time?" he pressed.

"Just a day or two—I promise," she told him.

He sighed, then turned to get back in the car.

"Give me the keys," she said. "I'll drive you home."

He was silent, sullen even, on the ride back to his cottage. Once there, Maggie pulled over and parked. Quentin turned to her. "I'm trying hard to understand, Maggie." His voice sounded harsh to her ears, belying what he was saying. "I'll give you all the time you need, but I want you to know something. Every day since I arrived here—in this time—I've thought about the prospect of going back to my own time. At first, I think that's what I wanted. I thought being here was a great adventure—a curiosity—a lark, but I belonged in 1897. Then one day, I realized that I was worried that I might be pulled back to my own time. I was worried because I want to be here— _with you_." Then he kissed her goodbye. "Don't let me down, Maggie," were his parting words. In a few long strides, he's traveled the distance between the car and the cottage and disappeared inside.

As evening settled on the Great House, Maggie sat staring into the fire in the drawing room. She knew that she loved Quentin, yet she kept turning his proposal over and over in her mind. When she was away from him, she kept thinking about when she would see him next. She missed him when he went back to the cottage and she to the Great House. And when she was with the kids giving a lesson or having a meal, he'd enter her mind like a specter and she'd wonder what he was doing at that moment—and whether he was thinking of her too. " _I love you, Maggie … I thought you loved me too."_ Yes, she was in love. She recognized the feeling—the distraction, the longing, the pain and pleasure all at once—it was love alright. And then there was the barely contained passion that sparked between them. Still, it was the first time either of them had dared to call it love, but it so clearly was. And yet ...

" _Maggie_ ," Carolyn's voice broke through her thoughts. "You were miles away. I called your name three times. A penny for them," she said as she took a seat on the couch opposite her friend.

Maggie sucked her lower lip between her teeth for a moment and then began, "Quentin asked me to marry him."

Carolyn broke into a broad smile. "Congratulations. I knew he would."

"You did?"

"Of course. I've seen the way he looks at you—and the way you two are when you're together—so intense and into each other. It was only a matter of time," was Carolyn's effervescent response. But noticing that Maggie's affect didn't match the news she'd just imparted, she added, "But you don't seem happy about it. Did you say yes?"

"No. But I didn't say no either," she hastened to add. "I told him I needed a day or two to think about it."

"Why, Maggie? What's there to think about? You love him, don't you?"

"I do, Carolyn. I really do." She looked at Carolyn's eager, carefree face. "But … he only …" She hesitated. Only she, Julia, and Professor Stokes knew the truth of how he came to be at Collinwood. "It hasn't been that long since his memory returned," she continued. "Maybe, he should … oh … I don't know— _explore_ a little before settling down."

"Maybe he's already explored, you know. Maybe when he got his memory back, he realized he'd already sown his wild oats, as my mother would say. So when he fell in love with you, he was ready to settle down. Did you think about that?"

"It's possible," Maggie murmured.

"Of course, it is," Carolyn told her. "It's clear he doesn't want to be with anyone else. He hasn't so much as looked at another girl since he got here. Not even that dreadful Amanda who works at the Inn, and you know how she throws herself at every man she sees." Carolyn allowed herself a moment of unrestrained cattiness.

"Carolyn!" Maggie chastised her friend.

"Anyway," Carolyn continued, "Quentin is so romantic," she enthused. "Drives up the coast, long walks on the bluffs, picnics at the cove—it's so sweet and old-fashioned, so _romantic_. I wish Tony would be like that sometimes."

"Carolyn, I never knew you were such a romantic. We go on flat-wallet dates, because he's just getting started at the mill, and it's not like he can afford real dates."

"Really, Maggie, where's your sense of romance? It's clear how much he wants to be alone with you."

"And I love being with him—I really do, but it's so new … _we're_ so new together … and …"

Carolyn sighed. "And what, Maggie?" Why are you putting up all of these roadblocks? What's _really_ holding you back?" Carolyn probed gently.

"What about Joe?" Maggie asked, tears forming in her eyes. "It wasn't that long ago that I was engaged to marry him. I feel … I don't know, disloyal, guilty I guess … being happy, falling in love again … if I marry Quentin when Joe is …"

"Oh, Maggie," Carolyn went and kneeled beside her. She placed her hands on top of Maggie's and gave them a gentle squeeze. "The last thing in the world Joe would want is for you to spend your life waiting for him, or give up a good thing because you feel guilty about being happy without him. He would want you to be happy, and you and Quentin are happy together. Aren't you, Maggie?"

Were they happy? They were well matched; they suited each other; they _loved_ one another. But conventional happiness was for other people. They had each been touched by dark things that redefined the meaning of happiness. While Quentin did not share the origins of his dark moods, and Maggie could not remember the darkness that touched and altered her life, they deeply shared that bond—one that defied simple explanation. To Carolyn, she simply said, "Yes, of course, we're happy together."

"Maggie, we both know Joe well enough to know that if— _when_ — he comes out of it, he's going to be happy for you."

"I want to believe that, but …"

"Then believe it, because it's true. You deserve to be happy, Maggie." A short silence ensured before Carolyn continued, "Maybe you should, I don't know … speak to Julia about your feelings. Maybe she can help you make sense of it all," Caroline said with genuine concern.

Maggie sighed. "I know you mean well, Carolyn, but there are some things that I have to figure out for myself." Then she rose. "I'm going to go for a walk to clear my head."

"What? _Now_?" Carolyn asked.

"I'll be fine." Maggie smiled and gave her friend a brief hug. She grabbed her peacoat to keep the evening chill at bay, and headed out the door of the Great House. She hadn't intended to go far, but soon found herself veering into the woods. It wasn't that long ago that Maggie would have been terrified of walking through the woods in the evening but now, for some reason, she felt safe enough. She wandered down the path and back toward the bluffs.

She knew that Carolyn was right. Joe would want her to be happy. She loved Quentin, and he loved her. Yet, it was different than it was with Joe. Joe was always protective of her—always taking care of her in some way. But with Quentin, it was more like they were looking out for each other—taking care of each other. He trusted her to handle his moodiness and never treated her as though she was fragile. And she, in turn, allowed him to see all of her facets—the part of herself that was scarred by the dark, unknown time; and he understood her need to be strong, as a result, especially with him. To be sure, there was plenty of give and take between them. He still had 19th century notions about many things; and she had a modern 20th century sensibility. Sometimes, they would clash over simple things, but they always made things work. She was his anchor in a new life and he was a spark in her old one.

Without thinking she found herself at the door of his cottage. The look of relief and sheer happiness on Quentin's face when she'd unexpectedly arrived on his doorstep served as confirmation that she was making the right decision. She went into his welcoming arms. "Yes," she said softly. "Yes."

* * *

Collinwood 1969

Quentin stood silhouetted by the light of the full moon. In the distance, he could hear the sound of the waves breaking below the rocky bluffs. He looked so distant and remote. Maggie came up behind him and threaded her arms around his waist. He tensed for a moment, instantly guarded. "It's okay," she whispered, knowing the first night was the worst. On those nights, he paced restlessly or roamed the woods by moonlight. She would never have approached him that way on such a night. But by the second night, as this night was, he relaxed a bit. He didn't flinch at being touched, or snap at being soothed.

She knew she could undertake research to put the pieces of his odd behavior together, or enlist Professor Stokes's help in giving a name to what remained unnamed. But that would be breaking faith with the man she'd pledged to trust. He would tell her when he was ready. Until then, she learned to understand his moods, to anticipate them, to accommodate them. She understood now when he needed distance and space, and when he needed her to pull him back, to remind him that he still belonged to her world—no matter what he was or did in his own time.

"I hope I didn't wake you," he said. His hands sought hers and covered them.

Ignoring his implicit question, she said, "It's one of _those_ nights. Do you want to talk about it?"

"I still feel its pull," he said simply.

"The darkness within?" she asked.

He nodded.

"You know you can tell me. Whatever it is, I can handle it."

He thought of the myriad times he'd almost told her everything. "I know that—I know that you can. It isn't that. It's that I'm working really hard to put it behind me. The last thing in the world I want is for it to touch you too. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I think I do, but I want to help."

"You do help. Just being here helps," he told her with an edge in his voice that was characteristic of _those_ nights.

"But it takes you back to your own time?" she wondered aloud.

Now he released himself from her embrace and turned to face her. "I'm happy here with you, Maggie."

"But you must wonder what became of them," she persisted. "It's natural to wonder, especially on nights that take you back there, whether you wish it or not."

"I know what became of them. All I have to do is look around Collinwood today to see the descendants of the family I left behind," he said with quiet conviction. "And what about you?" he asked.

"What about me?" she asked as she cocked her head to one side, and narrowed her eyes at him.

"On restless nights, do you still wonder what happened during those missing weeks?" he asked.

She hesitated. Did she?

"Because if you do, if you want answers to that sense of foreboding …" He paused—knowing that his cousin—his friend—Barnabas was responsible, and that their friend, Julia Hoffman, must be implicated as well. Yet, if she asked it of him, he would tell her.

"I just want to look forward. We don't do enough of that here at Collinwood. Let's leave the past in the past." Relief suffused him. Her eyes shone even in the dim light. "We could travel, or move west," she said, trying to read and respond to his mood.

"Leave everything—everyone you know and start over. You would do that for me?" he asked.

"I would do it for _us_ ," she told him firmly.

"And what about this half-finished farmhouse? That's no way to repay Roger and Elizabeth's generosity in giving us this derelict."

"I thought you loved it too," she said in a tone he now recognized as her worrying about him.

He laughed. "I do—I really do. All I want, Maggie, is to write the next chapter in the Collins family history—right here—with you. I love you, Maggie—Maggie _Collins_. I still love the sound of it."

"I love you too."

Then he took her in his arms and kissed her. Though she felt reassurance in his embrace, she shivered involuntarily in the drafty room.

"I've kept you up long enough," he said. "Let's go back to bed."

~The end~

* * *

AN: Thus ends the story that Ms F. asked me to tell. Like the show itself, I'll leave it to you to envision your own answers to the questions we entertain—will Barnabas find happiness with Angelique in the 19th century? Will he free his cousin Judith to pursue her own happiness with Evan Handley? Will Chris Jennings ever return to Collinwood? And if so, will Carolyn and Amy forgive him? Will Joe be happy for Maggie, if – when – he recovers? And of course, will Quentin and Maggie live "happily ever after" in spite of the dark times they've endured? I'll leave you to ponder these, even as I do. Thanks so much for reading!


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